Don't Hang Up
by demuredemeanor
Summary: After a long day at the 12th, Castle is roused from his twisted sheets by a phone call. She needs him. There is no hesitation in what he does next.
1. Chapter 1

"Castle," her voice echoes through the phone. Her voice ragged, heavy as she greets him. But it's hushed, like she is trying to make the least amount of noise possible. She is breathless. He can hear the way she's exhaling against the phone, not even attempting for control, but they're silent.

"Kate," he responds immediately, everything about her voice, the way she said that one word, the way she said his name, giving her away. She is scared, maybe even petrified. Normally she wouldn't show it, so he knows it has to be serious. He's already sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling through the covers for the phone pressed to his ear, searching in a mad panic. Then her voice forces the realisation, the phone is to his ear and there is a clock on his bedside table.

"Can you do me a favour?"

He hears her swallow, imagines the rise and fall of her throat as she swallows her pride, asking for help. Anything, he will do anything. Then he realises she isn't a mind reader, isn't in front of him witnessing him sliding from bed, headed for his wardrobe searching for shoes. So he vocalises it. "Anything," he says. He loves the way the word puts a deep feeling in his chest, a pride he shouldn't have. He knows he shouldn't be enjoying her need, especially under whatever these circumstances turn out to be, but he is still enjoying it despite his better knowing. But it's the truth, he would do anything.

"My door is open, Castle." Her voice hitches in the middle, then again as she says his name. It makes him decide his sweats and sweatshirt are enough. "Can you please just stay on the line while I check?" she says distractedly, like she's searching her eyes over the doorway just waiting for someone to spring out from behind the door. " Just in case," she adds reluctantly. Her voice hitching along the way, the pleading note on the please strikes another chord.

"Do you think someone is there?" It doesn't matter. He is already at his front door, shoes on his feet and his car keys in his hands. Be damned if he isn't going to check she is really okay, he can't let something happen, he won't. If she needs him, actually needs him, actually finds some sinister individual in her apartment then he will almost be there. He hopes.

His question never reaches her. She must have put the phone in her pocket, knowing he won't refuse her request. He would never refuse her anything, they both know that. What she doesn't know is that there are more people after her than she thinks.

He hears her shuffling as he pushes the elevator button, calling on the car which is four floors too many below. He waits three seconds, pushing the buttons upwards of fifty times, muttering a small mantra of "come on" as his finger works furiously on the button. Then he hears her flick the safety, his stomach drops. There is no doubt in his mind now she needs him so he isn't going to be standing waiting for an elevator while she is shot, or stabbed, or beaten, or worse… He can't even consider them. He won't have that burn into his memory. He won't lose her, not with him a few blocks away. If only she'd waited, he won't let that haunt him. He runs for the stairs, no thought that it will probably take a little more time than the waiting. But the waiting, the doing nothing would feel longer. This way he doesn't have to stop, doesn't have to stand still. He careers down the stairs, not stopping as he stumbles on them, not stopping as he slams into the walls at the turns, not focused enough to slow down, plus this way he won't notice the blinding pain in his ankle if it has to share the attention with both his shoulders.

When he reaches the bottom he stops breathing, refusing the lungs screaming for air, refusing to provide his muscles with the oxygen they crave, the oxygen they need for him to keep moving. But he's still headed to his car, only jogging so he can listen. He can hear the movement of what he is assuming is her coat, no other sound is obvious. That is probably a good thing. Though he would like to be able to hear her breathing, be assured she is in fact the one moving and not something sinister.

He knows he's reached the car before he realises it with his eyes. The phone goes dead. It almost gives him a heart attack. But then he sees the car, unlocks it so he can cram himself inside and check she is in fact alright. Check nothing has happened in the time his Bluetooth locked to his car and the time it took him to clamber in and turn the ignition on. He really needs to work out how to change the damn settings.

The shuffles continue and he's already reversing, ready to plant his foot and not let up, not let up until he pulls up as close as possible to her apartment.

He keeps running his fingers through his hair. He's crossed two intersections, two junctions in the many separating them. He has caught both lights. At this rate he'll be lucky to make it there by Christmas.

She won't be impressed if he gets fifteen traffic infringements. Not even his position as her partner would save his licence, he doubts she may be able to keep him from jail though.

Then the light is green and he is off again, catching a few greens and pressing his foot down harder.

The shuffling stops, the sound of the material of her clothes brushing against the phone. It goes silent. He stops breathing. He needs every sense focused on the call, on a sense she is there, that nothing has happened.

Then he hears her breathing. Soft gasps but hard, like she's fighting to stay in control. She can probably hear that he's in the car.

"All clear." Her voice resonates through his car. He wants to crush her in his arms, press her against his chest and check she's still breathing, check this isn't some cruel rouse. But he can't. He isn't even the remote vicinity of that ability. But he does let out a full sigh, releasing the breath of air he hadn't know he was still holding. He focuses his intent on the road, the sooner he gets there the better.

"You're okay?" he asks, realising he neglected to ask the obvious, somehow finding the words in his haze of relief and intent on the road. Her voice has made him move faster, not too much but just enough that the next light a few intersections later has him tapping incessantly on the wheel as he awaits her response. He has contemplated running the red, ducking through at the last second, ignoring the warning light. But he knows she'll kill him if he does.

So he doesn't. He just waits for her response.

"Yeah, I," she starts, stops then starts again. "I'm sorry, I know I scared you. Really I'm fine. You should go back to bed. You'll wear a hole in the floor if you don't stop pacing. I can hear you from here." She sounds like she's smiling. It eats him alive. He can hear her moving through the apartment, no doubt checking the doors and windows, turning that deadbolt.

He needs to see her. "I'm on my way," he says distractedly. Finally he's turning the corner, now only a block from her apartment. He can almost feel her presence, her voice on the phone, her breathing surrounding him. It is the closest to her he's ever felt, especially with her still so far away. It's like she's on every side of his body, breathing in his ear.

"I'm fine Castle, go home to Alexis." It sounds like an order, but it's empty. He isn't sure why. Maybe she's been too shocked, too jolted for it to be assertive. Maybe he is just ignorant to the threat in her voice, the warning in her tone.

"I've already parked the car, Kate." He has, it's not a lie. He hadn't bothered to respond to her as he cross the last few intersections, turned around, finding a spot across the street and along a little from the entrance to her building. He wondered if he would have been that lucky if the circumstances were different, if he had actually needed to rush to get to her.

But right now his rush is otherwise motivated. He needs to see her, needs to check she's breathing then he will turn on his heel and go home. He will. He might check her apartment himself first though, put his mind at ease. It'll give her enough ammunition to use against him for a lifetime. He is more than happy for that to happen. It means she'll get a lifetime. If she is still teasing him when he is old and past-it, he can cope with that, as long as she's there.

He puts the phone in his pocket. She'll listen to the dead air after he closes the car door then it will turn over to his pocket. He knows she'll hang up, knows she won't listen to the brush of his clothes over the phone. She will be reminded, it will resound within her that that's what he listened to for ten minutes as she checked every inch of her apartment. Maybe she will keep it pressed to her cheek, dumfounded that he's headed upstairs, coming to find her, to check on her.

When he raises his hand to knock the deadbolt kicks over and it's already opening, like she was standing behind the peephole, watching or maybe just listening to his footfalls coming up the hall. When she pops her head around the door he stops breathing again.

"You okay?" he asks, he can hear the hitch in his voice, hear the emotion he isn't bothering to restrain. This could have been so much, this could have changed everything. Someone could have been lying in wait, waiting to pounce on her, while she slept. Then his eyes are scanning the room, taking in every nook and crevice, even the ones too small to possibly conceal a person. It is involuntary. He has to be certain.

"I'm fine. I think I locked the door when it wasn't quite tight in the frame. I have to slam it closed now before I lock it. I think I forgot this morning in the rush." Her voice is filling the room, but he doesn't hear it. He is already headed along the hallway leading to her room, eyes scanning the other rooms as he passes.

When he reaches her room he stops in the doorway, eyes scanning intently, ears pricked to hear the slightest sound. But he doesn't enter. He can't peer into this space too closely. He trusts now she's checked and is about to tear his gaze from her bedspread when she touches his back. She presses her hands flat against the small of his back then slides them up, over his shoulder blades, digging her thumbs along the muscles which flank his spine, applying enough pressure to unhunch his shoulders and make him lift a hand, to run it through his hair again. Then she's as high as his shoulders, both hands gripping the still tense muscles, her grip urging him to calm down while her thumbs linger at the top of his spine. He realises she probably is also trying to find the words to apologise.

"Kate," is all he can mutter as he turns, crushes his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest, she's so close she doesn't even have to step forwards. Then he feels her crush his neck, tugging him down to her level a little to rest her chin on his shoulder, so he hunches over her, slipping his arms down her back as he does. Then he's got his arms firmly around her hips. She breaths in his ear, then he's lifting her off the ground, pressing her chest against his completely. Not high, just enough that to keep herself grounded she's pressing her toes onto the very tops of his shoes, groping with the phalanges for a foothold.

"I'm fine," she says, hand at the back of his neck. He just pulls her closer. "Really," she promises. Maybe he shouldn't have crushed her against his chest, hugged her so tight he's lifted her off the ground. But then she breathes against his ear again and he grips her sweatshirt between his fingers. Then it strikes him.

Apparently she's changed. She had to have been just home from the precinct when she called, when she needed him. He hadn't been home long himself. He has to wonder when she did it though. Was he on the phone? It makes him give a half groan and lift her higher, pulling her closer, forearms supporting her so he doesn't have to put her down, so he won't drop her. The groan isn't at the thought of her undressing while she listens to him speak or speaks herself. Though the thought of her in a semi-dressed or undressed state is more than enough to cause him to groan, this time it wasn't the cause. It is the intimacy of the moment. Like its old habit. You don't just change when you're on the phone with anyone. He realises she was unusually quiet after she told him it was all clear, before he told her he was on his way.

He realises she's probably waiting for an explanation. "I know. I just need…" He doesn't know what exactly he needs. Well he knows he needs to hold her, but he can't tell her that. He needed to be here, to check on her, to comfort her if she needed it. but now she's comforting him. "Are you okay?" He hopes she understands he's not asking about her current state, the fact there is no one in her apartment lying in wait for her but more if it has rattled her and if so how much. He knows it's a how much type question by the way she's got her face pressed into his neck, buried in the hood of his sweatshirt as it gathers at his neck, letting him hold her like this.

Then her toes get a grip and she's standing on his feet now, pressing the tongue of his shoe into his foot, he realises they're undone and that it hurts when she stands on his left foot. He shuffles the offending appendage and she puts both feet onto his right foot, shifting her weight against his chest to balance.

He flexes his ankle and puts his foot back to the floor, judging by the stiffness of the movement it's a little swollen. It can't be too serious though it doesn't hurt to walk on, he'll just have to ice it when he gets back home and keep his weight off it.

Then she moves to step back across, considering that her weight is pressed against his one foot. Considerate, but he slides his hands up her waist, drawing back a little to talk to her, tell her.

"You okay?" she mutters, head turned on his shoulder to look up at him.

"I thinking I rolled my ankle on the stairs," he says it softly, not needing to be louder with their proximity. Then he rests his chin against her hair. "Its fine," he assures.

But she's pulling away, sliding the few inches down his body, stepping off his uninjured foot. Except he keeps his arms locked around her, discontent at the thought of her withdrawal, at least another minute. He didn't know that would be the last minute.

"I'll get some ice, hobble over to the couch crip." She's got her hands on his arms, prying his fingers from their grip on his forearm as she teases lightly, an attempt at distraction he knows. He relinquishes his hold on her, but catches a wrist in his hand, not ready to lose contact completely. He watches her regard him as he slides his fingers across the skin before she's stepped back and is tugging him forward. It's a wordless command to follow her to the kitchen, the couch or wherever she is leading him. He will follow her anywhere she'll let him.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll get some ice, hobble over to the couch crip." She can't help the smirk which crosses her features. She can see him studying her intently as she slides her fingers over his skin, urging him to let her go, for now. As soon as she tugs him forward she regrets the step she's already taken. His ankle probably hurts. She should slow down, give him a chance to hobble over at his own pace and not keep up with her able-bodied movements. She glances back at him over her shoulder and he seems fine, but she can tell it's a brave face, at least in part. So the next step she takes is smaller, allowing him to crowd her, urge her forwards, if he's comfortable with a quicker pace.

"I'm fine it doesn't even hurt." He waves their joined hands between them, in a 'so-what' gesture.

Regardless of his assurance, he doesn't even come close to crowding her as he steps forward. She's almost walking backwards as she keeps watching, setting the pace accordingly.

"It will soon. The adrenaline will wear off." She knows she's not telling him something he doesn't already know. But she thinks in this moment he needs to be reminded. He's lucky her apartment is small and they've already reached the living area. "Take your shoes off and I'll get the ice," she instructs, squeezing her knuckles into his fingers for the briefest second before she drops his hand and moves into the kitchen. Even if he doesn't consciously realise, her pace just increased ten-fold compared to the one he set, and she's not even trying for speed.

She grabs the ice tray from the corner of the freezer then decides against it. It won't be enough, he needs more than a few ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth. So she sets it back down and searches her freezer for the alternate. She's sure there are at least two proper icepacks in here somewhere, buried beneath something. She had one a month ago so it can't possibly have gone too far. But she has to shift the contents of the appliance so it must have been buried deep when she searched for food late one night. She sees it after another shift, a blue corner poking out from behind a packet of meat she should probably check the date of, but she'll do that another time. She grabs a new cleaning cloth from the packet she keeps under the sink and wets it, wrapping it around the icepack to keep it off his skin. She sees he's positioned himself on the couch, leg stretched out in front of him. He's moved her coffee table so it's closer, so he can rest his calf against it. Apparently her search in the freezer hadn't taken too long. He's only just undoing the shoes on his feet, he hasn't even progressed to gingerly tugging them from his good foot, let alone his swelling ankle.

She hands him the icepack, succeeding in her attempt to steal his focus for a second as he slides the last of his shoe from the swollen foot. She catches the intake of breath through his gritted teeth, the slight grimace doesn't belong on his face. His eyes warm though when she passes the cold bundle to him, giving him half a smile as she does.

"Thanks," he says softly as he tugs off the shoe on the good foot.

"Painful?" she asks, brushing off his thanks. His thanks are unnecessary; it is her fault he's in this position anyways so she ignores them. She shouldn't have panicked, not really. She'd had her gun at her hip, already unclipped from the holster as she drew the phone to dial, all automatic. The phone already ringing before she realised who she'd called. It didn't matter; it was too late to hang up now. He'd just call her back anyways. So she'd pressed her back against the wall opposite her door so she could brace herself while she focused, steeled herself for what might be to come. She'd raised her arm, aimed her weapon at the middle of the doorway, so if someone burst through she could take action before they even knew she was there, unless they'd already heard her. She waited for him to answer, needing his back-up.

It had been stupid, she should have realised the lock to her apartment hadn't been picked and the door wasn't damaged from being opened with a swift kick or insistent shoulder. She should have known that meant there was little chance anyone would be inside. She is a detective she should think like this, except she hadn't. Hindsight is a cruel taunt.

Castle is giving a slow nod and she's thankful he's not saying anything about the way her eyes have quickly darted around the room again, constantly vigilant.

"I told you it would need ice." She doesn't have anything else to say. What else do you say to a man who, it seems, has basically hurled himself down the stairs of his building to get to you? How do you thank him? Other than the obvious then offer ice for his wounds, bandages if need be. Maybe she should get him to strap it, immobilise the movement and slow the swelling. Maybe she should take him to triage, or at least offer to call a doctor to come to her apartment to have a look. He'll brush it off as unnecessary, but if this had happened in the field she would be forced to call it in and write up a report so really he should see someone.

But his toes twitch as she examines the ankle wrapped in the cloth and the icepack below so it can't be too serious, or he would have said more. He isn't that proud.

"Admiring the swelling?" he asks softly, causing her to force herself to blink and look from his foot to his face.

When she meets his awaiting gaze she finds he's still as relieved as he was when he pulled her to him, lifted her and pressed her against his chest. He'd needed it, that much was clear, it had been radiating off his body. She hadn't, at least not until he'd leant against the doorway to her bedroom, refusing to enter, to cross some line in the sand. Then she'd needed it. He'd barged into her apartment, seeking out a predator she has already been waving her gun at, threatening under her breath as she moved through the silent rooms. She had been stunned when he'd told her he was already outside. It wasn't that she hadn't been expecting him to react, but she thought he would have paced a hole through his bedroom, stared out the windows at the city begging the obstructing buildings to shift so he could see hers, or just sit against the headboard of his bed and listen, fingers bunched in the sheets. She hadn't even thought they'd been on the phone long enough for him to reach her apartment. The distance isn't that far, but he shouldn't have been able to get here so quickly. She wonders if she'll be calling in a few favours in the few short weeks it will take for the fines to arrive through the mail.

She shifts her focus again, actually studies his ankle, realising she hasn't answered his teasing comment, realising she got lost in her own thoughts again.

"It's getting worse." She gives him a grim smile as she speaks and watches as he glances at his ankle.

She watches him shrug. "I'll be fine in a few days." She doubts it will be, doubts he doesn't know that himself. He'll be hobbling around for a few weeks, at least.

"Sorry," she offers dumbly, watches as he moves his gaze from his ankle to her face.

"It's hardly your fault. You thought…" He stops abruptly, they both know what she thought was happening, well she assumes he realises, he did turn up. "I thought something was wrong." He rests his chin on his fist, elbow propped against the corner of the couch.

"I know. I'm sorry." The words feel stupid to her own ears, she wonders if it's because they sound empty or if she's just that clueless about what else to say. The later is definitely the case. She hopes he sees that too.

"I should have waited for the elevator." He shrugs again.

"Don't," she blurts out.

She swallows, tries to look away but he's holding her gaze with something she can't name, can't define. His eyes laced with surprise and a little concern, but there's more, much more. It's just she wishes he wouldn't start on the what-ifs. If she starts on what-if she'll be worrying about strangers creeping through her apartment, sleeping with her gun beneath her pillow for the next six months not just in the nightstand where it has finally returned to months after her shooting.

No one was in here. She's almost certain. She'd checked nothing had been taken, nothing seemed disturbed, everything as she left it. She'd changed out of her work pants and blouse while he stayed stoically silent after she'd told him it was all clear. His breathing had forced her into darting her eyes around the room, her semi-dressed state something she began to regret. She'd felt like someone was watching her, but she couldn't focus over the rhythm of his breathing, his relief. She still feels exposed, like someone's watching. Well that isn't entirely untrue, he is watching, but she still feels it, some other presence in the place. It feels like someone has been in here, she knows that's ridiculous and not very likely. But it's still there. She's glad he came. She's glad she watched him check as well. She'd been flooded with relief when she'd seen that he too found nothing. That reassures her as much as her own search had done. It means if she missed something, he would have found it.

"Kate," he prods softly, she realises she's been staring blankly at him for a long minute, watching his features as he waits patiently. He's always patient. She needs to thank him for this, buy him dinner even if she doesn't explain the reason. She's so glad he's here. She' also glad he's not able to just hurry out the door, brush off his panic and her own, and leave her alone to her thoughts, to the sounds of her apartment, quickening her heartbeat each time the beams creak or someone in the apartments surrounding her open and close a door.

She flicks her head around the room, searching out the noise which has just shifted through the silence of the room. It's like her thoughts have been realised, someone is in here and she missed them. They both missed them.

He's smiling as he reaches out and touches the fist she's curled at her side, the other pressed into her lap. He may have just clutched at every inch of her body, but he hasn't made any sudden movements, hasn't brought his hand into her line of sight before he touched her. She's too on edge and they both know she's more than capable of breaking his wrist. That would require a few explanations in the bullpen tomorrow. It would have to be come fall to result in the two.

"It's fine. I moved the table, sorry." She can hear the apology laced through every syllable. But he shouldn't have to apologise, she's just on edge. It'll pass in an hour or so, it's the same whenever they head through a silent building seeking out a suspect, every noise putting her on edge for a while afterwards. It is exactly the same tonight, except the silent building had been her own apartment, and she'd only had the cold weight of her piece to offer her back-up, her partner listening in her pocket, phone pressed against her heart in the inside pocket, protecting her like a shield. It wouldn't have saved her, but he might have been able to call for help in time.

The thought of him having to call an ambulance, call dispatch and tell them the situation jolts her out of it.

She needs something to do, keep her mind off it. She needs to focus her attention on something, keep her hands busy to stop the whir of her mind. Dispatch woke her this morning at a typically ridiculous hour, a new case, fresh body found by garbage men as they did their rounds. Then they'd spent the day chasing down leads, going through the evidence with a fine toothed comb. Then she'd spent the evening building theory with him while their Chinese containers of food were cradled against their chests, barely pausing between mouthfuls. Then later the half-empty and forgotten containers sat on her desk when they'd caught onto something, standing toe-to-toe each egging the other on, developing the story further, uncovering missing pieces. But it had been too late to chase it down, so she'd called it a night and sent him home. Then followed suit herself.

"Coffee?" she asks. That will keep her hands busy.

"Please." He nods, gives her a tight smile, brushes his thumb over her knuckles then removes his hand completely, shifting his focus to his ankle, leaning forward to shift the icepack. It must be getting too cold in that one spot. That or he needs to rotate it around the appendage.

She regards him a second. "Need me to call someone? Or take you to the hospital?" she offers. She's already decided she's going searching for the second icepack she's almost positive should be there. If it's not she'll just have to wrap some ice-cubes in a cloth. She realises then that he'll have to hunch over and hold them to his leg. Maybe she'll offer, hunched over trying to drink his coffee won't work, so she'll have to offer. He won't forfeit the coffee. Now she's not sure she wants to find the icepack. Then she realises he's speaking.

"It feels alright. It doesn't hurt unless I move it. I'll go to the doctor in the morning." He's shrugging it off. But she can't help the sink of disappointment she feels as he points out he won't be at the precinct tomorrow, or if he does show he'll be useless and probably on crutches.

"If it hasn't improved by the time we've had coffee I'm taking you to the hospital." She sets her jaw, focuses her gaze on him as he turns to protest.

"Okay, we'll see." She knows he's just saying it to appease her for now, but she does detect that he had considered the trip himself, at least for a second.

She nods in agreement, a fair compromise, and stands to grab the coffee.

While she waits for the coffee to trickle down into the mugs she grabs the second icepack from the freezer and tosses it to him from the kitchen. He doesn't catch it, just missing, she sees him shy away for a brief second and retrieve it, she wonders if he's embarrassed he missed it.

"Thanks," he calls and goes back to tending to his ankle, now replacing the other pack with the new one, or maybe repositioning it so both can surround his wounded ankle. She watches while she leans against the counter, she doesn't offer her assistance. She knows he doesn't need it. Not right now. Later maybe, but he's not leaving yet. He's here to stay for now, not that he has much choice for the moment. But it doesn't matter, he came and he stayed.

…

"Thank you," he hums as she passes his cup to him, standing beside the corner of the couch. He drops his good leg, the one furthest from her and gestures for her to step over, not to bother going around.

She considers that she doesn't want to spill the coffee on him, but she's already taken a few gulps so it's not full to the brim anymore. Plus she hasn't spilt coffee on herself for a few weeks now. Not even in her early morning haze, like she normally does. She curses it now she'll probably drop it on herself in the morning then have to rush around and change, erase the evidence of her morning clumsiness when her body is too exhausted and desperately requires the caffeine in order to function. It really is a shame she can't absorb it through her skin, that morning splash will be all she'll need to tide her over until she gets to the precinct, to the cup waiting from Castle. Except tomorrow it won't be. She realises she's done it again, stared off into space and kept watch on his face. He's got to be beginning to think she's crazy.

"You're welcome," she mutters as she steps over his leg easily, settling herself against the back of her couch. She doesn't miss the way his arm brushes hers when he raises his mug to drink. She doesn't bother to move, he hasn't, if anything he lingered a second. He certainly dragged his elbow down her arm deliberately as he lowered the cup again. She raises her own cup and takes a gulp, then pulls her bottom lip back between her teeth.

Neither says anything. She doesn't feel the need. She just needs him to stay there. Even the lingering doubts about the open door were banished by his brush against her.

"A bit better now? Did you need another cloth?" she asks as she flicks her gaze to his ankle, moving her attention away from the door. Out of sight out of mind, at least for now.

"No, its fine," he assures as he raises his arm again to take another drink.

She swallows and turns side on, bending the leg closest to Castle so her foot is wedged now under her other thigh, her knee just hovering above his thigh. Her leg just covers the distance between them, the tension the angle generates in her muscles keeps it poised above his most of the time, bouncing slightly each time she breathes, or he breathes.

She regards him from her new position, decides he's not lying to her. Though she isn't sure whether he was just answering her second question or both. It doesn't matter; for now she's going to drink her coffee and just enjoy the closeness, the reassurance for them both. None of this waiting for him to take a gulp before he touches her, now either can flinch and receive the touch as they choose, lingering or just a breath away. She inhales softly at the contact. He's shifted his leg slightly, probably bounced up on his toes a little, lifting his good leg up off the floor a little, pressing his thigh against her knee, not bothering to lower it again. She isn't sure if he's staring at his ankle or her knee, she doesn't care. She just leans back against the couch, her shoulder wedged into a gap between the two cushions, careful to keep her eyes on the mug of coffee in front of her. Soon she'll run out of the warm liquid, but that's alright.

He's here and she's allowing him to see she is too. She's taking a step, hopefully in the right directing, dragging him along with her.


	3. Chapter 3

He's here and she is allowing him to be there. It's not like he could really hurry off at the moment and leave her, but even if he could he wouldn't. She's curled into the couch, more so as he watches her, bringing the leg touching his thigh to her chest. He wouldn't think she'd be so comfortable, basically curled into a ball, but she looks about as relaxed as she has been since she realised he was hurt. It was like the fact he'd taken this so seriously implied that she should have to, unless it had caught her off-guard and tipped her back-off balance, reigniting the panic in her belly. She'd kept bumping against him unnecessarily as she moved, shifting obviously. He'd suppressed a smile, she hadn't been looking at him, but he knows she would have felt the change in him.

As soon as she'd followed him to the couch with the ice, waited patiently while he gingerly removed his shoe, he had wanted to drag her across the cushions and settle her against his chest, simply holding her there while he felt her weight pressed against him. But he wasn't sure she shared the idea and even if she did, whether she would even be entirely comfortable with it. He could never quite tell how comfortable she was, so he just let it be, settled in to just watch her. It seemed the mood had shifted anyway, the moment to pull her against his chest again passing. He still wanted to, risk of bodily harm or not. Her position once she rejoined him, settling in closer with her coffee had erased the doubts she was uncomfortable with the closeness. Sure they she wasn't sitting flush against his body, but she certainly was close enough that he could touch her with barely any movement. This time however the possibility of one or both of them winding up wearing at least one cup of coffee put a dampener on his intent.

The first time he brushed against her it hadn't even been intentional, but he'd seen her react. He'd expected her to tense a little, pull away, but she had relaxed. So he'd feigned the gesture again, doing his best to remain impassive and let the contact speak for itself. It was enough to reaffirm her existence, that she was actually beside him, but it was a torment, a horrible tease of her. He still can't believe she's okay. She is actually fine, sitting beside him. Sure she's a little quieter than normal, but they've had a long day, drawn out and beginning too early for his liking (which only means hers began earlier). It makes him think he should leave, let her go to sleep. But he knows her well enough to know she probably won't sleep at all tonight, she might not even try. The thought makes him want to wrap his arms around her again. He takes a long drag of his cup, never taking his eyes from her. At least if he keeps drinking the coffee, he has an excuse to touch her and then when he's done maybe he'll risk bodily harm and pull her closer.

He'd just laid his plan in his own mind, determining within himself that the contact wasn't enough, but for now it would have to do, when she moved, shifted beside him. He'd thought she was pulling away, so he'd stopped still, not moving letting her adjust her own position and making himself an irrelevant facet of her longue, as accommodating as the pillows beneath her. If he moved she might pull further away. But he was shocked as he felt her touch. It was like she was deliberately touching him, he supposed she was, but then once she'd settled her leg, had it only hovering over his, it wasn't enough. She'd basically set up their position, all he'd had to do was lift his foot the tiniest fraction, rise onto his toes with the slightest shift in weight and his leg had come into contact with hers. It was too easy. It still wasn't quite enough, but it was enough. He hadn't expected her to react, maybe shift slightly to keep the contact fleeting, but she hadn't, she'd dropping the tension in her muscles ever so slightly and rested the weight of her knee on his leg.

It was of the more interesting positions he'd ever found himself in with her, both of them toeing the line, pushing the boundaries, testing the waters. He isn't sure what to make of it. But they sat there silently both draining their mugs. As he'd leant forwards to set his mug on the table beside hers, she had wordlessly taken it from him, flicking her eyes him at him briefly, hesitant, nervous. He swallowed as he watched her lean forwards, the only sight he could take it was the curve of her back, the arch of her spine, even obscured completely by the oversized sweatshirt it was unmistakeable. Then she's settling herself deep into the couch cushions again.

"You'll tell me if it hurts too much right?" Her question jolts him out of his own thoughts and he shoots his hand down to her knee (completely automatic) to still the movement he knows is coming, the panic, the withdrawal. But she doesn't need to. All she's done is startle him out of his own thoughts.

She never moves her leg, it intrigues him a little but he forges ahead. "Of course." His assurance is quiet and sincere, at least he hopes that's the way she hears it too. He's not lying, he will tell her. But for now he's ignoring the odd throbbing as the limb swells. There is nothing much a doctor can offer him right now anyways, other than maybe some pain relief. They're doing all the right things: rest, ice, elevation.

Except compression. How could he forget the acronym he memorised long ago, just in case Alexis needed it.

"Do you have a bandage?" he asks slowly. He doesn't want her to move, but if it will mean the swelling will at least slow, leading to a quicker repair, he will have to endure her absence. He could always make up for it when she returns.

She's already up off the couch, the contact gone, the warmth of her leg removed from his own as he just catches sight of her as she slips down the hallway to her bathroom and after what he's assuming will be a first aid kit.

She's back in only a few seconds, balancing the bandage between the tips of her fingers. "Can you catch?" she teases lightly, but there is a glint in her eyes that suggests she knows otherwise. Damn, that means she hadn't missed the earlier fumble.

"Nope." He hopes his honestly will shock her. "I'm too wounded for such antics."

She just rolls her eyes and tosses the roll of material at his stomach, he doesn't even move to catch it, just collects it from within the rolls of his top.

He's already unrolled it and has leant forward to wrap his foot when he feels the cushion shift as she sits down beside him, closer even than before, her knee just touching his own.

He feels his body twitch a little at the contact, his whole body. The things this woman does to him floor him, every time. If she ever realised, he would be in for considerable suffering – not that it would be suffering, but it would be torture if she were to continue these chaste touches and lingering looks with intent.

"Nobody ever shown you how to wrap a bandage?" she asks softly, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees supporting her head. It's like she expects him to have done this countless times before, probably includes Alexis in the equation too. But he hasn't, not really, sure he'd wrapped ankles but it was never for compression, always for scrapes and cuts.

"Nope. Apparently it's not something you can make up as you go along either." He's dejected, he hopes she can't pick up on it. but if the small, almost-mischievous smile playing across her lips is any indication, she can most certainly tell. Who is he kidding, she always knows, even if she doesn't let on.

"When I sprained my ankle the doctor showed me how to wrap it." That is most certainly a dig at him.

He tries to not look so shocked. But she flicks a hand in his direction in a brush off gesture. He realises she has probably taken his interest gaze as concern, it is in part. He wants to ask her to show him, but she's gone back to smirking at him, a little too smug.

"Well then we'll have to go to the doctor," he says it quickly, hopes it's come out as a blur. "In the meantime I'll just have to make do," he says softly, then sighs, feigning exacerbation, as though it is some great effort as he starts to wrap the soft material around his ankle, threading it around, over and under, bracing as much of the joint as he can think of.

"That is not even close to how it should be," she sighs, holding out her hand, twitching the ends of her fingers.

He regards her for a second, then untwists the bandage from around his ankle, finds it comes away much too easily, she's right. It is not meant to just fall away as soon as he tugs so he hands her the balls of material and leans back on the couch, resigned.

She's rolling the bandage up when he realises a second later she hasn't pressed the material back against his skin. It must be easier that way, he notes. He really is clueless.

He wants to reach forward and touch her back, but he doesn't. He wants to run his hands over the arch of her spine and urge her to come closer, but he doesn't. He just watches her twist the bandage in her hands, rolling it with expert ease – he really should ask how many times she's had to do this before, but not right now.

"Which side does it hurt most on? Lateral or medial?" she's asking, glancing back at him over her shoulder. The soft smile playing on her lips tells him she doesn't mind doing it, sure she'd feigned annoyance, but that's just what she does to him.

"Lateral," he offers softly as he shifts his ankle slightly. He hadn't even considered where specifically it hurt until she'd asked. But now she's asked, it is definitely the outside that is worse.

"Okay," she nods then she's scotching back on the couch, sliding away from him.

He draws his brows together just watching as she slaps a hand on her thigh, a non-verbal response to his silent question.

He moves slowly, setting his calf across her lap, keeping his other leg bent, out of her way as he presses his weight against the arm of the couch behind him, keeping most of the weight of his leg off her lap. He'd had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound, she doesn't need to worry about this. It only hurts when he moves it, to be expected. He doesn't doubt it will be improved in the morning, at least slightly.

Then she's pressing a hand on his calf, silently urging him to relax his leg, to hold his ankle in a natural position so she can strap it. when he obeys he searches with his eyes so he can meet her gaze, catch her attention and say thanks. But he doesn't, she's too intent on studying the swelling and slight bruising visible on his ankle.

"I really think I should take you to see someone, Castle," she says softly as she starts working. She's not meeting his gaze now and he realises he has no hope of catching it now until she's done. Her touch is feather light as she presses a piece of tape against his skin, where she's pulled that particular medical supply from he isn't sure, she certainly never offered it to him. He has to wonder if she deliberately concealed it, leaving out a crucial component of the methodology she'd left him to determine on his own. It was as if she'd forced him into failure, just so she could take over, swoop in and save the day – he supposed he owed her one from earlier. She hadn't admitted she was thankful for his showing up, his intrusion into her home after her phone call, but he had seen the relief wash over her in waves as he walked through the door, more blinded by determination adrenaline than by actual regard for safety as he searched each room.

"It's not as bad as it looks." No, it's worse.

"Well this looks worse than bad. And if the way you keep squirming each time I move over this section," she touches it through the bandage, "is anything to go by, there could be something seriously wrong with it." He wants to groan at her touch, and she's removed her fingers, she'd only brushed against the bandage but it feels like she's delivered a swift kick to the spot. Even though he stays stubbornly silent, clenching his jaw and pressing his tongue against his teeth as hard as he possibly can, anything to stifle the noises he wants to make in response.

"It just needs some time." And maybe a week on crutches, probably more if he's not careful with it. He still can't work out when exactly it happened. Sure it must have been the stairs, but he'd taken all ten flights fluidly. Sure he'd bounced off the walls, but he doesn't remember almost falling or grasping the railing as he lurched forward from the pain. He never did. He must have been oblivious to the fact his ankle had curled in on itself and just levered himself off it using his full weight to propel himself further down the stairs.

She's not going to take no for an answer apparently. She's glaring at him, more serious now that she's felt the extra weight of his leg, the swelling and seen the damage been done, slid her fingers over it. But he doesn't want to leave here, even if she comes with him, the thought of her coming back here to find her door open again makes him meet her glare with his own defiance.

"Can we strap it then ice it for a while?" he asks softly, hopeful. "The ice is really helping." It sounds empty to his own ears, but its not, he's serious. The ice is helping, it's just not doing as much as it should be to relieve it. The more she bandages it, the more serious he realises it is. The adrenaline had been so high he hadn't even felt this, how could he not have even felt it. sure his legs had been jelly by the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, but he'd attributed that to the furious pace he'd kept and the sheer number of stairs he'd just descended.

He realises she's considering it, sliding her hand over the bandage again, securing a final piece of tape and smoothing the rolls which have formed as the material knitted itself together. She continues her ascent up his leg and he watches her hands as she settles it in the soft material of his pants, pressing the tips of her fingers into his shin.

He reaches down and slides a hand over her wrist, urging to shift.

She gives him a quizzical look but doesn't question, just allows him to rest the dead weight of his leg against her as he uses his other arm to lift himself off her couch, scooting the rest of his body further down. He lifts his good leg just as it's about to slide beneath her thigh, or behind her back, he isn't sure which. But he puts it across her front, resting it on the arm of her couch before he drops her wrist to use both hands to guide his other leg forward to rest his calf beside the other. He leans back, catching her wrist as he goes, tugging her along, urging her to lie against the back of the couch beside him.

He feels the difference immediately. He also wonder when she repositioned the icepacks around his ankle, securing them in place with the clothes. It can't possibly have been before he moved, but surely he would have felt the cold come in sharp contact with the small amounts of exposed skin around his ankle. Apparently not.

The feel of her along the length of his body again is equally reassuring. She'd only made a slight noise of protest as he pulled on her arm.

"Elevation," he mutters as he moves his arm behind her so she can wedge her shoulder into the cushion beneath her without obstruction. He's not positioning himself so he can pull her closer, really he's not. It's just a coincidence that now he can trace patterns on her arm through the material of her thick clothes.

"I'm still taking you to see a doctor tonight, Castle," she says, breaking his thoughts as she settles her head against his bicep – the fact she's got to keep her legs curled beneath his legs disappoints him, it means she's much shorter than normal. Her height is something he always appreciates.

"We'll see," he mutters, turning to face her but finding she's more intent to play with the draw string of his hood than meet his gaze. It won't stop him watching her though, he's just waiting for her to realise their position, freak out or panic and try to flee. All she'd have to do would be head to her bedroom and lock the door. It would take him fifteen minutes to reach her, giving her ample opportunity to prepare her defences. But the way she's smiling, the way her eyes are following the knot as she twists it in her fingers, suggests she might not, just maybe she will let him lie here with her until the icepacks grow warm and he has no other option but to nudge her up and let her take him to the doctor, at least for some pain relief and something else to stop the swelling.


	4. Chapter 4

__I apologise for the delay guys, but it has finally marched out of my head.__

* * *

><p>"I'm still taking you to see a doctor tonight, Castle." She doesn't even care anymore, she just has to make sure he understands, she's paying attention to the dissatisfied noises he made as he shifted. But she hadn't missed the sigh of contentment, of comfort as she let him tug her towards him. she'd thought he was going to shift her to she had her head on the pillow beside him, but he didn't. He just tugged her so he could stretch out.<p>

She should have stayed sitting, just let him drape his legs over her lap and kept traced patterns over his skin. But she can't so she busies herself with the drawstring which had been on his shoulder, keeps twirling it in her fingers to keep from running her fingers through his hair, touching his cheek, smoothing her fingers along his jawline. She can't do those things, she just can't. it's not her place.

She knows he would welcome the gestures. But she's just not there yet. She doesn't exactly know why though. She knows she's not quite there for the obvious reasons, but he understands those, he would heal those with her. but theres something else. This other lingering hesitation she won't vocalise. It's like she will lose him the second this happens, like the reality of them will not live up to the hype, the tension, the anticipation would all be gone. It would just be them. she knows they wouldn't be flat, at least not straight away, but she fears it won't work. But she shouldn't rule it out before it's even begun. You can't feel like this about just anyone. Least of all a man you spend hours and hours with at a time and never tire of him. sure, he grates on her nerves, but that's just how its always been. It's not serious.

She swallows and toys with the string, twisting the piece of plastic covering the knot in the string so it slides up. She won't look at him. She knows he can basically read her mind when she meets his gaze, at least that's what it feels like sometimes. But maybe she should look up at him, she can feel the concern seeping out of him as his fingers graze her shoulder, comforting her or himself she doesn't know. It doesn't matter. He's still here, still watching out for her and here she is lying beside him, basically wrapped in his arms, her body flush against his, his breath against her scalp and all she can think of is her fear that she'll mess this up, that he'll tire of her. if the way his eyes are boring into the top of her head are any indication then he won't tire of her anytime soon.

"We'll see." His voice is barely a breath away and she fights not to meet his gaze. She wants more than anything to lift her gaze and catch a glimpse of his expression. How can he always do that? How does he read her mind?

Her stomach drops as she considers that she may have spoken aloud, vocalised at least some of her concerns. Then she wants to laugh, settles on smiling instead, gaze still stubbornly fixed intently on that knot. She is being ridiculous now. She's been known to let things slip around Castle but the entirety of her inner monologue, basically a soliloquy, has not been heard by his ears.

"Cold?" he asks softly, nose pressed against her scalp now.

"Huh?" she asks, leaning her head back against the back of the couch before she lifts her gaze to his. She just needs a breath of space.

"You keep shivering," he explains softly, leaning his own head back. She watches his eyes rove over her body.

She rolls her eyes and puts her cheek back against his shoulder, twisting the knot over in her fingers again, her thumb twitching through the loose strands at the base. "I'm fine," she says softly, speaking mainly to the knot in her fingers. Really, she's fine.

She feels his hand slide over her shoulder again, applying a little pressure. Just the right amount, not suffocating and not too little. He always knows what to do, even if he doesn't seem to know what to say. "I can hear you thinking from over here," he mutters, nose in her hair.

This time she doesn't lean back into the cushion just rolls her head back, resting the back of her skull in the crook of his elbow while she glares at him. "Then you're too close," she teases, watching his eyes as they dance across her face, the corners of his mouth quivering, trying to decide whether to frown or smile.

She doesn't bother to wait for his decision, just settles against his chest again, resting her forearm over his stomach as well returning to twirling the knot absently between her fingers, feigning disinterest at his proximity.

She leans back against his chest.

"Not too close." He moves forward, shuffles her again, he must feel daring.

He shifts a little down the couch, she watches as he slides both legs further over the arm of the couch, then uses the leverage of his knees now over the arm to pull his body down, while he tugs her closer to his chest, keeping her firmly against his.

"This would be too close."

She glares at him, shifts away from him in protest. Except, to shift she has to press her thighs against his to gain leverage. He's forced himself that far down the couch she can't get far, her legs are still folded beneath his. She doesn't mind the weight of it, it's reassuring. He's here. His shift just proves it. But the man is stubborn.

"You are this close to me 90% of the time Castle." She regrets it as soon as she says it. It's true he is this close to her a lot of the time, crowding her in doorways, nudging her, brushing against her. She's even started reciprocating. But she should not be vocalising it.

"Not really," he responds quietly. She'd been hoping he'd tuned out, missed that one, gone temporarily deaf.

"Today you stood behind me while we waited for the girl to make our subs that you were literally breathing down my neck." She sounds too defensive. She knows it. But the soft smile on his face doesn't make it seem like he cares. She really should stop talking though.

"I didn't hear you complain."

She blinks, dumbfounded – this just gets worse. Has the pain gone to his head that much? Surely not. She opens her mouth closes it. She needs an excuse and a good one. He is the only one who does this to her.

She finds something resembling the truth. "I kept moving away and you kept following." So she'd given up bothering to keep walking, she doesn't need to say it, the smirk on his face has given that much away. She hadn't moved too much, just as her sub conveniently moved slowly along the production line she moved as she ordered cheeses, specified her salad, chose her sauce, requested pepper but not salt, and then stood in line to pay for them, sent him to get coffee so he wouldn't crowd in behind her again.

He makes a noise of approval and she jumps slightly. His mouth is at her ear, his against her cheek. She swallows. He's sliding his nose along her cheek so slowly he has exhaled four times hot against her and not moved a full inch. Then he exhales again, but it's harsher, like he's fighting for control.

"You aren't moving now," he breathes against her skin.

She flinches, then realises that was a mistake.

Now her nose is at his cheek. Her mouth is against the underside of his jaw. Her cheek pressed against the rough stubble. Then she realises she's moving forwards.

Wait.

She's not moving forwards, he's moving back.

She grips his sweatshirt.

She doesn't even know what she's doing, but his proximity is overwhelming. It is overwhelming but she doesn't want him to move.

She notices him freeze completely at her movement. Like if he stops moving, she'll relax and not punch him in the face.

But she doesn't want him to move.

"Kate?" he asks softly, touching her shoulder, light, an attempt to reassure her – she's almost certain that's his intention.

She swallows and crushes her incisors into her bottom lip. Then she realises, she's just pressed her nose into his cheek, skimmed her cheek against the stubble of his jaw.

She feels him swallow, the rise and fall of his neck catching her eye and another harsh exhale against her cheek.

She exhales against him, feels him squeeze her shoulder. She stares at his skin, watches the corner of his mouth as she brushes her lips across the stubble, one, feather light.

She'd wonder if he felt it except now his hand is at her neck, sliding along it as he prompts her to angle her head so he can see her face. Like he doesn't believe what just happened.

She doesn't believe what happened.

Then his lips are on her jaw, just as soft, just as timid.

"Castle…" she breathes. She isn't sure what she's going to say. But he's stopped, so she better work it out fast.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Castle."_

He feels rather than hears her say his name, her breath warm against his skin.

"Hmm," he hums in response, slipping back slightly to find her eyes, gauge her reaction, his nose grazing her cheek still. He doesn't want to but if she's going to pull away, withdraw and hurt them both he will make her look at him as she does it. He is owed an explanation.

He forces himself away, placing an inch too much of distance between them.

He watches her regarding the angle of his chin, some line on his neck, a freckle or maybe just the fact he's sporting more than a five o'clock shadow. It doesn't matter. It's all the same.

It makes him swallow, not self-conscious but fighting for control, forcing his fingers to keep still against the back of her head, to make it easier for them both when she slips away. It should be any second now.

But she shifts her head back, against his fingertips causing them to slide along her hairline, just sinking in far enough that he can feel the base of her skull, feel the tension of the muscle he's barely touching beneath his fingers. She doesn't raise her face to look at him, just angles her forehead so it's almost touching his chin. She gives a shuddering breath as he lets his fingers settle into half a rhythm, just small shifts and soft touches like she might shatter if he uses too much force. It's true she might just shatter if he presses too hard, and not just with his fingers.

Every vibe she is giving off, every feeling he's getting from watching her is telling him that she is about to run. But the fact she's still nestled into his side, leaning back against him, watching his jaw line so intently suggests she is fighting it. Something has her still at his side.

"Kate?" he asks softly, watching her intently as she flicks her eyes up at him for the briefest of seconds. Then they're gone again, refocused on his chin or his jaw line or his neck. He doesn't even care which, just presses his fingers deeper into the sensitive skin of her scalp, feeling the ridges of her occipital bone.

He swallows when she flicks her eyes up to him again, another brief second, a little longer.

In response he presses on the same spot again, soothes it with his fingers as she arches her neck again, pressing her head deeper into his hand. He closes his eyes as he swallows.

But then she isn't there anymore. Her head isn't in his hand anymore. Her breath isn't at his jaw, slipping down his neck and just grazing his lips. She's not there.

He opens his eyes, regretting closing them to begin with, searching for her. His hand is still tangled in her hair so she isn't too far away.

Then he feels it, the hot exhale against his cheek. He blinks again, he has to. When he opens his eyes he's got his irises pressed as far into the corner of his eyes as possible. Like he's frozen, trapped flat on his back and he has to communicate everything he can to her without moving another muscle. He supposes this is true. If he moves, if he does what every single instinct in his body is telling him to do and turns to face her, he'll be extremely close. He doesn't mind, but she might be startled by the sudden proximity. Sure, right now she's got her face pressed against his cheek but being face to face, that'll be different. Plus, he isn't sure he'd bother to stop from leaning forward and closing his mouth over hers.

Then she licks her lips, her eyes flick to his then rove every inch of his face, like she's thinking exactly the same thing. The thought makes a slight huff, an almost chuckle escape from his chest, held tight by her weight and the seriousness of their proximity, but it seems he shouldn't be stopping himself. He shouldn't be holding back. But he is, suddenly finding the ceiling very interesting as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, twitching his fingers through her hair, each movement tangling them into the loose strands, proves extremely distracting though.

"Hmm," she asks softly, barely counts as a question but he knows exactly what she's saying. Why has he turned away? Would he turn back?

His answer isn't verbal. But neither was her question.

This time he does turn his head. Just ensures his movements are slow enough that she sees it coming, so she has more than enough time to pull back. But she doesn't. She doesn't pull back as he touches his chin to her forward, slides it down so the stumble on his apparently fascinating chin grazes her forehead then down to her nose. The tip of his own nose follows the path of his chin. He hovers at the ridge of her eye socket, lets his lips brush the corner against her nose. He feels her body shift beneath his, tugging herself flush against him, the arm at his chest and her body at his side apparently no longer enough. She needs more proximity. She's seeking out more proximity.

If that's what she wants, he won't stop her.

He angles her head gently. Guides her movements with his fingers at her scalp, weaving through the soft strands, sliding his fingers toward her ear, stopping only when his thumb touches the soft cartilage, grazes the underside of her earlobe. As he moves her head, he lets his chin slide slowly across her cheek, his nose following suit, cold against the warmth of her cheek. He flicks his eyes down at the sensation of hot on cold and realises her cheeks are a little flushed, a hint of red washed across her pale skin.

He exhales gently against her skin, again and hears her breathy response, nervous, restrained, like she's fighting herself into staying stock-still. It can't be her wanting to run, needing to run. If that was it she would be here. It's like she's frozen, can't even breathe. He supposes she might not be able to, he certainly can't and it isn't the weight of her body weighing him down, it's the proximity. The anticipation that is humming through his body, coursing through his veins with the adrenaline begging him to move faster, to take some giant leap she's not ready for. She's not ready for this. They're not ready for this. He himself doesn't know that he's ready. But tonight, this is too right to pass up. Her proximity, residual adrenaline and his gratitude there was nothing in her open apartment. He's even grateful for his ankle giving him an excuse to stay for a while longer.

Then she makes the noise again, a hitched exhale, a shuddered breath back in. He feels it slide along his cheek, past his ear and he doesn't think. He just presses his nose back against hers, grazes his chin along her cheek, smooth this time as he moves his head back up to press his lips to the flush on her skin, the soft skin at its thickest just beside the tip of her nose.

He doesn't miss the quiver that slides through her body, he can feel it at every point of contact. And he's never been more thankful for her height being so close to his own, giving him the greatest surface area as it ripples through her, twitching her hand at his chest, her own chest pressing tighter to his side, her knees and pelvis wrapping around his hips as she brings her knees closer to her own chest. Still it seems she's mindful not to jostle her feet, keeping them fixed at the back of knees, ensuring she doesn't bump the ankle he's forgotten completely about.

Now isn't the time to start considering it again.

He sure isn't moving from his position to go and visit some quack who'll tell him to ice it, take some pharmacy painkillers and keep his weight off it. A monkey could give him that much advice.

He realises he's still got his lips pressed to her skin. He breaks the contact, but only just, leaving them hovering over the considerably warmer skin.

Then she smiles, wide and open mouthed, completely unrestrained. Her cheek rises up with it and he has little choice but to let his lips press back against it. He certainly won't complain if that's the response she's going to give.

He keeps his lips against her skin again, sliding his nose down slightly, snails pace again.

But then he stops.

Her cheek has dropped from beneath his touch, the smile gone from her face, her hand no longer on his chest, clenched in his sweatshirt. He holds his breath, doesn't move. He even lifts his hand from the skin of her head. He's allowing her an escape route, some space, should she need it. He's already expecting her hasty retreat at her inevitable onslaught on her panic.

Then her hand skims his jaw, the pad of her thumb at his cheek and a knuckle grazing the underside. He closes his eyes, lets his hand go back to her scalp, keep her close. She seems to want to be there.

Then she presses against the tip of his chin, angling his head, apparently as insistent as he was, putting him just where she wants him. He shouldn't have expected less.

He swallows, forces himself to breathe again, and opens his eyes to find hers.

He does. But she's not watching him. She's watching the line of his jaw, watching her fingers.

He slides his thumb along the back of her ear and presses with his fingers, splaying them, so he's got her head cradled completely in his hand.

She quivers again. He feels the shift across her scalp, a ripple passing over it, the hairs shifting beneath the pads of his fingers.

Then her lips are against the underside of his jaw, while he slides his thumb against her ear again. He feels her intake of breath as she slides a fingertip back to his own ear.

When she slides her finger along, behind his ear, he quivers. Now he understands.

She smiles against his skin, presses down then pulls back, withdrawing enough to look at him in the eye, the first time since they started this dangerous game.

"See?" she challenges softly, a brow raised in a gentle defiance.

He gives a soft laugh, showing her he understands, but won't apologise. He can't contain his smile, not even a little. But that's her fault. Hers is gentle, infectious.

He does it again, a challenge to stop him. But he angles her head, guides her back so she doesn't have to stare him down. So she's guarded. So she doesn't have to respond with anything but a quiver.

He settles her temple against his cheek as she presses herself against him. Her hand braced against his other shoulder, her fingers curled once again in the material.

"Stop it," she warns. It starts off like a threat but loses all force once she chuckles through the 'it'.

He presses his lips against her cheek again, conveniently located beside his mouth. He didn't plan it, but it's nice when these things work out.

"Okay," he promises quietly. But it becomes certain when she presses her lips to his jaw again, just catching it from her angle, having to slide a little to make full contact.

He brings his other hand up, the one he's had itching at his side, forcing it not to touch her, to hold back, to refrain from too much too soon.

But it's not too soon.

She turns her head and kisses the knuckle he slides along her chin. He keeps it still as she slides it back along her cheek, toward her hairline or her ear, he doesn't know. He uses it to catch the corner of jaw, hold it still with a single finger, twitching his fingers through her hair, a plea to relax.

Apparently she didn't need the instruction, didn't need a suggestion to heed.

She presses her lips back against his skin, soft and slow, higher than before. Only just but in terms of progress, it is monumental.

So he slackens his hold on her, not that he really wants to, he wants to press her closer, urge her on. But she doesn't need it.

She's already climbed higher again, flicking her eyes up to meet his as she touches his skin a third time, another breath closer. Every nerve ending is set on fire by the look in her eyes, in that split second she's jolted the memory of the last time. The way she tasted, the feel of her against him, how natural it all felt. He couldn't name that particular look, but it was honest and raw and made him want to move her head and end this slow torture.

But then she's climbed higher, moved so now her nose is considerably higher, her mouth pressed almost at the corner or his mouth.

He stops breathing as she does it again, flicks her eyes to his as she presses her mouth to his skin, this time grazing the corner of his mouth ever-so softly before slipping her nose against his skin, inhaling, sucking cool air across his skin as she kisses him again, this time not bothering to look up. Closing her eyes as she steals the corner of his top lip between her own. He parts his lips slightly, allowing her to move along, encouraging her.

He's dropped the hand from the corner of her jaw, letting his fingers slide over the material of her sweatshirt, follow the line of her arm, travelling down, trying to find her hand.

He lets her do it once again before he catches her lip between his own, just as she's about to pull away again to continue her travels. As much as he wants her to continue, the urge was overwhelming him. He'd let her do it another time. Later even. It doesn't matter when, just not right now.

Then it strikes him, he won't let there not be a later, or a next time. Now this is happening, her lips on his mouth, more accurately his bottom lip, he's not letting it stop. But he shouldn't be doing that now. He should be proving to her she shouldn't want to stop. He knows how she feels, knows how scared she is, but he also knows she's never let herself really feel this thing between them. But now she's kissing him.

He slides his hand back up her arm, finds her waist and leaves his hand there as he skims his lips over hers.

He draws her bottom lip into his mouth a little as she inhales, slides his tongue over it before releasing it. It earns the exact reaction he'd hoped for. The next time she presses her mouth to his its open, wet, hot and insistent. He meets her with much the same mix.

It's not awkward. Not that he expected it to be. But it should be. There should be a fight for dominance (are they not renowned amongst their colleagues for such fights?). There should be a clash of teeth (are they each not as stubborn and determined as the other?). There should be some awkwardness (are they not always in sync, perfectly coordinated?). But there is none of it. It's easy and simple when really it is anything but. At least for now they can cling to that simplicity.

He shivers.

He can't register why.

Then he realises.

Her hand is sliding back down his neck to settle on his shoulder again.

He swallows, slides his tongue along the roof of her mouth, sliding it over her teeth as he withdraws his tongue, closing his lips against her open ones and letting her press another kiss to his mouth before he speaks.

"That's not fair," he whispers harshly, kissing her mouth once he's finished. He adds a little more whine to his tone than necessary, certain she'd think less of him if he didn't.

She withdraws, settles her chest back against his side. When she rose up to hover over him he's not exactly sure, doesn't even care, as he slides the hand at her waist across her back to keep her close.

"Payback," she says as she settles her fist in front of her face. He isn't sure what she's hiding or why, but he can see the smile in her eyes so there is hardly a point to it. She's glowing. There isn't another way to describe it. He wishes there was, it doesn't do it justice.

He realises her other hand is behind his shoulder, his weight pressing her whole arm deep into the cushion. So he shifts his weight a little, doesn't miss the fact he moves almost her entire body, like she's lying slack against him. He realises she is. All the tension, the hesitation is gone. Obviously it had melted away while he'd been otherwise occupied by her skilled mouth.

He bends his arm, a most peculiar angle, to find her hand where he knows it will be. She meets his fingers when his elbow refuses to twist anymore, when his shoulder will dislocate if he moves it further from normalcy. He notices the way her fingers twitch against his own as she guides his arm back to nestle beside her chest and how the arch when he applies pressure. She's got pins and needles from his weight.

He brings her knuckles to his mouth, kissing each one gently. "Sorry," he mutters against the back of her hand.

"What?" She opens her eyes. "Why?" she asks softly.

"I should have realised your arm was there," he mutters again, sliding his lips over her thumb, kissing the pad softly.

She slides the pad across the stubble at the edge of his lip. "Don't be stupid," she says softly.

He kisses her knuckles again, while he slides his other hand up her back, grazing the edge of her shoulder blades with his fingers, hoping he's not knotting the hair he's catching in his hand.

He feels her moving before he sees her move. Her legs are shifting beneath him, her torso rising as she presses her fist into his shoulder, using him as a human stepping stone so she can adjust her whole body. He expects her to raise up and crawl over him, back onto the floor to start the process of him leaving, of her having to drive him back home with his injured ankle. He hadn't even thought of that until now.

He skims her rising shoulder, an apology of sorts.

And then she settles her weight again, curled around him more closely, if that was even possible. But it is. She's keeping her chest hovering above his own and he watches her lean forward and press her lips against his knuckles, one by one, agonisingly slow. Now he's confused.

Then she kisses the corner of his mouth again and by some form of telepathic communication, some coordinated dance, they move their hands between them. He's too distract by her mouth to register that she's wedged his hand on her sternum, between her breasts, over her heart, pressing into the scar that he should know lies beneath.

When she breaks the kiss, a tangle of heavy breathing, swollen pink lips and searing eye contact ensues, and he has to fight to stop himself rising up and capturing her mouth again. She looks like she has to say something.

But she doesn't, just moves her fist from his shoulder to run her knuckles over the stubble on his jaw.

After a few minutes he speaks. "I never took you for someone who didn't prefer clean shaven." He'll never shave his face clean if she's going to keep touching him like this.

She laughs. "It's not that. It's just…" He watches her swallow and turn her eyes away, following her fingers as they move. "You climbed out of bed to be here."

"You needed me." He could barely hear himself so he hopes she will. She does.

He watches her close her eyes, probably considering the possibilities. The situations where she would have needed him cause her fingers to slide along under his chin until she's got it perched in her fingers.

She opens her eyes and meets his curious gaze with as much fear as he's ever seen on her face apparent. So he closes his eyes against it, he slides the hand hovering at her shoulder blades up onto her neck, angling her head as he drops her fingers and leaves her hand between their bodies so he can touch her cheek, slide his fingers around her ear. He loses his fingers in her hair as she meets his mouth, softly with her own.

The kiss is so agonisingly slow he thinks he'll burst. But then she pulls back, rests her nose beside his, regaining her breath.

He keeps his eyes closed, twitching through her hair as he breathes through the weight of her. He doesn't mind, it just reaffirms she is right there.

….

_Can you tell I've been watching For Lovers Only repeatedly?  
>Problem? I think not.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_I apologise for the delay but I think once you read this I will be forgiven. I hope._

.

She needed him and he came, no hesitation, no regard for his own safety. Hell, he'd hurled himself down the stairs. He could have fallen and broken his neck. She swallows the thought and pours all the fear, the regret, the gratitude into the kiss. It's an odd mix. She's not sure she's ever done this with anyone before.

Not like this.

She's laying herself bare, using her tongue to convey need and want and longing, all responses to those same three feelings. She could have been the reason something happened to him. She shouldn't have panicked instead drawn her gun and headed inside. But she shouldn't hold it against herself or him that he's here.

He's here because of three little words he said, words she feels, can't say.

But she's here, isn't she?

That should give him a pretty big hint that she feels it too. That _this_ is an undeniable step in that so-right direction. Lying with him on her couch, her body so wrapped around his, so completely curled that she can feel him a part of him at every crucial place. His lips are to hers as well as his tongue strokes hers lazily, lavishing. Here is most certainly somewhere she's staying, it's delightfully slow, kind of torturous.

But then he's gone, leaned back into the cushion and pressing his nose into her own, keeping her close still, no doubt more than prepared to return to that so elegant dance.

She nudges his nose once with hers before settling it there to breath over his cheek, let the warm air caress his skin like his fingers are doing in her hair.

But then he skims her ear again.

She quivers.

She narrows her eyes at him, watches him smirk before turning her head to find the offending digits, losing her own face in her hair as it clings to his fingers. It's not hard to find.

She kisses the middle of his palm, feels him skim his fingers over her face, brushing some of the hair away with his other hand, shifting it slowly before brushing the same fingers over her jaw, her neck, her cheek, her ear, not even her eyebrows are safe. She presses several more kisses to his palm, amazed he can still stroke the side of her ear with his long fingers. Maybe it's the butt of his heel she's got her mouth to now.

But then his fingers are on her neck, not her ear, skimming lightly and trying to draw her back to him and it doesn't matter what skin is beneath her mouth.

She nips him gently, drags her teeth over his skin so he knows it's coming, but once she has her mouth open enough it's firm and quick. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, steeling himself, remaining deliberately stoic and un-phased.

Her hair has caught in her mouth, but she's not about to get rid of it, removing it would mean loss of proximity, having to lift herself off him, support herself with one arm. She keeps her mouth to his skin, debating whether to kiss the same spot or bite another. She's not sure which would entice more of a reaction.

Her mouth is still and innocent at the base of his thumb. But then he's not still and innocent, no longer stoic and unmoving, sliding his hand over her ear, her jaw and her chin. All at once, how he's managing to do it she doesn't know, doesn't care.

She opens her mouth, presses her lips into his skin hard, trying to gain a footing to nip again, slide her teeth over his skin, pay him back somewhat. But then he applies pressure with his fingertips, steering her intently, suddenly demanding, moving her face back to his.

She hugs out a breath, a laugh and keeps her face in the palm of his hand, kissing it once as she follows.

He shifts her face impossibly close to his and she resists watching him, through a veil of hair, and resigns to avert her eyes completely. But then he's trailing his fingers away, curling them through her hair. As the butt of his palm, the heel she had her mouth to, disappears she kisses it again, just a skim before she's exhaling against his wrist as his palm skims her cheek, sinking into her hair. She considers following it again, continue playing the game, slow and intimate. She could get used to this. If someone had told her as she left the precinct that within an hour (or two, who knows how long it's been) Richard Castle would be beneath her, hands tangled in her hair and kisses her lazily before sharing intimate little moments as they lay curled on her couch, she would have laughed in their face but silently hoped for the chance of _one day_.

She realises his lips are at her cheek, scattering a series of kisses along her skin. She doesn't move away, just turns her head and leans into him, letting him continue, urging silently.

It gives her a chance, a few seconds to attempt to process the fact his mouth is on her skin, her body pressed so tightly against his that she isn't sure she wants to ever leave the warmth of his side. She won't be moving any time soon. Is it wrong to want to curl around him and sleep, his crippled form unable to shift her to send her to bed so he can sleep?

She can't answer her own question. Her thoughts are interrupted by his mouth brushing over her lips in a series of too light kisses.

What are they doing?

Well she certainly knows _what_ exactly they're doing, but how this will change things, who knows.

Curled together on the couch, completely wrapped up in each other-

It doesn't matter.

She doesn't care.

Right now she doesn't need to worry about meanings, they can do that later, when these intimate little kisses stop, when the intimate moments slow. Then she's happy to talk.

Right now her only concern is more of him, closer to him, savouring him, this, them.

Why ruin it with conversation?

So the next time he presses his lips to hers, feather light and all too quick, she chases him in his retreat, presses her mouth firmly to his and lets him know she won't stand for soft right now.

This isn't about comfort or fear, sure that's how it started, but right now, it's so much more. It's what they've been dancing around, fighting for so long to achieve.

Here they are. It's a delicate balance, they're teetering on the edge of something. But they're together, literally clinging to one another. So whatever _this_ is, whether they fall or fly, they're doing it together. She won't be letting go and she doubts he will be either.

When he nips her bottom lip, apparently getting the idea about pace, she opens her mouth and finds him doing the same. His tongue touches hers and she can't even think straight.

But she knows this is big.

This is huge.

She swallows between an inhale and an exhale, finding his tongue following the air as it rushes in the cracks of their mouths, dancing across the roof of her mouth.

His hand shocks her when it slides down her back, slow at first, hesitant. But then he finds the skin between her pants and top, snuck apart with her twisted position and then his other hand is there too, sliding over the exposed skin as she sighs into his mouth.

Then he makes a gruff noise, his own exhale, a combination of a sigh and a groan. It makes her smile against his mouth and he makes another noise, this time there is nothing holding it back, no exhale to disguise it.

He's just groaned into her mouth again and she sucks on his tongue in response, curious what's made him so suddenly vocal but happy to encourage the noises.

Then his hands grip her hips, hands wrapped in the loose material of her sweats as he presses his thumbs into them, urging her to lift up.

She obeys, curious.

As soon as she obeys, moves her body, he hauls her across his body, simultaneously sliding a hand down her thigh, urging her to let it follow her hips (like she's got a choice), curl her legs around him. She doesn't need any encouragement. She does wonder though when her legs moved from beneath his legs. Sure, she'd shifted forward, closer, leaning up over his chest, but she doesn't remember extracting them from beneath his completely. Oh well, it doesn't even matter now.

He pulls his tongue back into his own mouth and nips on her bottom lip as she shifts herself, careful not to jostle his legs as she sets hers on either side of his, her hips pressed into his stomach. She's always hated being a little shorter, worn heels to compensate but there is nothing to compensate here, those measly four inches make all the difference now. They turn lying on top of him into something a little less serious, no pressure applied to their hips by the other, starting something she's not sure they would be ready to finish. If the obligation isn't there then it can be avoided, right?

She has to wonder if he considered that when he moved her. He must have, he hadn't moved to slide her down his body, no pressure to apply pressure. She smiles as she relaxes in her new spot, finding her foot has considerably improved, her angle to move her tongue beneficial, her hands slipping easily beneath his head, putting him where she wants him.

Then his hands are on her back again, slow and lazy as his tongue works its way around her mouth, meeting hers, dancing together then apart. He's not really exploring anymore, she's pretty sure the muscle has touched every inch of her mouth, but he is most certainly travelling it all again.

She shivers as his hands work further up her back, finally bothering to shift the tank beneath her sweats, a flimsy piece of material she now wishes she'd foregone, it's clingy and slowing him down.

As his fingers graze her ribs she angles his head from hers and kisses his jaw, hot and open mouthed. It just urges him on.

She hasn't missed the fact his explorations are mainly one handed. He does alternate hands. But one is always gripping her hip, keeping her hips flush against his stomach, like she's about to pull away, clamber off him and head to bed. She's not. But she does understand why he's got that opinion.

She made him wait, halted all their progress in favour of self-recovery. But she's close. So close.

And that's before tonight, before his mouth and his hands have worked to seal closed old wounds, never to reopen. No doubts about this.

She was broken and he's fixing her.

She nips the corner of his jaw as he slides the material up higher. It's almost like he's trying to take it off, forgetting the baggy sweater that is sandwiching him hands to her skin. She licks the shell of his ear as he takes another inch, stopping to explore this newly exposed skin. Sure it's not bare before his eyes but it's open to his touch.

His fingers touch the knots in her spine, glide softly over them, soothing in a way he doesn't even realise.

She sucks his earlobe into her mouth, swiping her tongue over the piece of flesh after nipping it with her teeth.

His hands are grazing the muscles higher on her back. When had he travelled so far? Where was she?

She knows she was so completely lost in his touch, in her thoughts that she neglected to notice he's just below her shoulder blades, not too far from her scar. The thought doesn't make her throat constrict.

It's the fact he's about to work out she isn't even wearing a bra.

He hasn't noticed.

He's wedging the tank higher, failing and sliding his fingers along the underside of the material, working it free from the twists he's put into it.

She stops kissing his neck as he slides his hands over her back, around the curve of her ribs, her side. She chooses to just settle her face against his cheek and wait for the comment bound to come.

She feels him swallow at her chin, quiver as his breath hitches.

His thumb has just found her scar.

She presses a kiss to the angle of his jaw, a reassurance it's fine.

He caresses it once, before sliding forwards, moving to let the next finger twitch over it. Then the next one, undeniably, has them both spinning.

But it's not from the scar at her side.

His thumb has slid along, followed the curve of a rib to the underside of her right breast.

She chuckles against his cheek as he groans, finding her mouth instantly to silence both sounds. But he doesn't move his right hand, just slides his left so that both hands now span her ribcage, curling around to her back, licking the underside of both breasts.

She buries her fingers in his hair, tipping his head back so she can caress his tongue with her own, supporting her weight, guiding it with her forearms on his shoulders and her hips pressing into his stomach, arching with a sudden need for proximity she can't fill.

He breathes into her mouth as she continues to kiss him, hot and heavy, showing exactly what effect his is having on him.

Finally, he slides his hands over her skin, trailing his thumb back along the underside, swiping the soft edge as he slides his hands back to her back.

Then he's sliding the top again, working it further up her back, exposing as much as he can, hooking his thumbs under it and working it up to her armpits, amazingly fluid, especially working blind.

He does something she doesn't expect, slides his hands to her hips, gripping them both, hard, like he wants to shift her again, urge her to press the heat he can feel on his stomach against his hips, create friction and generate more.

But then, just as she's starting to consider doing it herself, he's skimming her stomach, touching the ripples of skin formed by her hunched position. She realises he's taking it in, memorising, probably imagining. He'll probably make a comment later about how she's looked better since she came back, how she's put on a little of the weight she already couldn't afford to lose. Though maybe he won't, maybe he'll just continue to ply her with bear claws each day.

He's humming into her mouth, sucking on her bottom lip as he does it.

Then he reassumes his previous position, fingers splayed, skimming her sides, grazing the underside again. He breaks contact with her mouth and she rests her forehead to his, keeps her eyes open, watching his amused expression.

"Ready for bed were you?" he asks softly as he skims with his knuckles, what is so deftly hanging there, asking for it.

She smiles, not the comment she was expecting.

"I was. Still am I guess." She hopes her wicked smile makes him see she's not tired.

He kisses her softly once, as he adds a second knuckle to the skimming, testing or teasing she isn't sure. She's not even going to comment. She's having a hard enough time keeping her words straight, focusing on the conversation she's just begun.

"You are?" He's curious, innocent. Faking it completely.

"Hmm," she hums, shrugging a shoulder, deliberate.

The hand tightens at that side as the weight shifts against his hand, stealing a skim of its own. Payback.

"Are you?" she asks quietly.

"Hmm," he hums, mimicking even down to the shrug.

"We shouldn't…"

"But?" he offers quietly. He always manages to be inside her head.

She regards him slowly, leaning back. "I want you to stay." She leans back to watch his reaction.

She watches him lick his bottom lip, skim his knuckles again. Even if he's going to say no he seems more than tempted.

"Out here or in there," she flicks her eyes to the hall leading toward her bedroom, "I don't care, but I want you with me." She hates being needy, detests it. But tonight she thinks she can forgive herself.

"I want to stay. But…" She watches the rise and fall of his larynx as he swallows. "We should… talk first, I guess. Set some rules."

She kisses him softly, nodding once as she pulls back, not caring anymore that each time she moves he clutches at her ribs, fighting himself for control.

"Can we talk in the morning?" She shouldn't have said that. But too late now. It's so soft he may not have heard it, but she sees him lift his eyes from hers to scan her face completely. He heard.

He comes back to her eyes, nods once and she kisses him again, in thanks, long and lingering this time.

He might just be thankful too when he realises she's not wearing panties as well. She smiles against his mouth as he becomes a little more adventurous with his hands (finally).

.

_Thoughts?_


	7. Chapter 7

He takes measured breaths, controlling himself because he can't control her, can't control the fact she's straddling him, arching her back and pressing her chest into his hands. He can't grip her any tighter, he'll crush her ribs, but he has to do something, has to regain some control, has to keep her close.

He has to keep her on this side of the line.

The lines seem like a fog, a haze in the distance, and that damn wall isn't even peaking out over the mist. They're in so thick, so deep, that he just wants to clutch at her and never let go, never let her go.

He's not going back now and he won't be letting her try. He's more than happy to stop and examine their progress, work to understand it, but he won't let her take this back, claim a mistake, a moment of weakness, of need.

But then she slides her tongue over his, drawing it deeper into her throat as she swallows around it then lets out and struggles to breathe against his mouth, unwilling to part.

She's not going anywhere.

He skims his knuckles over her soft skin, drags each of his finger tips back and forth across it, gliding and clutching. He exhales harshly into her mouth as she shifts slightly, into his hold, he can't be sure, but she has to be aware that each time she moves she's brushing them over his fingers, making this insanely difficult.

He may have kissed her, but she's taken control again.

He can't bring himself to do anything more than let her, let her leer over him, press her hips into his stomach, arching her back, gentle rock as she moves her tongue around his mouth. He's not even sure she knows she's doing it, what it's doing to him. But, amazingly, he's controlling himself.

She's just told him to climb into her bed, with her, or camp out here on the couch with her, sleep almost exactly like this. But he won't do that, he'll manage to move, eventually.

Tonight she needs him with her. _This_ isn't about that though. This is just a long time coming. Even if this hadn't gone where it has, where it's going, he'd still be staying, sleeping on the couch, not ready to leave, not willing to risk another call, another plea. But she gave a different plea, a need he can fill. Stay, curl his body around hers, let her sleep against his chest, be there when she wakes. Not just in case, but just because.

She arches her back more as she curls her tongue, sliding it along the roof of his mouth. He hisses into her mouth, steals her bottom lip, keeping it between his teeth, soothing it with his tongue simultaneously, as he slides his hands from her chest, gripping her hips, shifting her along his stomach, dragging her weight forwards.

He needs her to stop rocking against him, right now. It's causing a problem. Starting something he doesn't know that he'll be able to stop, doesn't want to have to stop.

She squeaks into his mouth, adorable, as he uses pulls on her hips, sliding her along his body, not in the direction he would like, but at least she's still close. She settles on his floating ribs, sitting, her thighs pressing his chest together, squeezing as she grips with her knees, like she's terrified she'll slide onto the floor, like she's trying to keep herself close.

Her toes are curling at his side, tickling, twitching, he presses his hands onto the tops of her thighs, sliding his fingers over the material of her sweats, feels her sigh in response. If she keeps making noises like that into his mouth he's going to –

He presses his palms into her legs, wrapping his fingers around her thighs, dragging them harshly over her skin. He might mark her doing that, if she bruises easily, but right now that's the only response he can give.

But she didn't make a noise into his mouth, she just shifted a little, slid her hands from his hair to his chin, her mouth still fused to his as she splays her fingers over his neck and jaw, tender and intimate.

He's so glad this isn't just fire and heat, a passion that she needs to expel.

But it would never be that, could never be that.

She loves him.

She may not be able to say it, maybe can't even think it, nor admit it to herself, but she does.

He breathes against her forehead. Sometime while he was lost in thought, his considerations, she pulled away and pressed her forehead to his chin, her hairline at his mouth.

He kisses the wispy hair at her hairline as he hears her chuckle, laughing to his neck, doubled over, smiling to herself. About what he has no idea.

She slides her forehead over his stubble, scrapping, scratching. He is never shaving his face clean again. it's just confirmed when he feels her shiver.

He rubs light circles over her thighs he knows she can feel through the material of her sweats.

He hears her sigh, feels her breath against his skin. It's a confession, an admission, she's amazed.

"What?" he whispers. He's curious, intrigued by what she's thinking, it could be any number of things.

She kisses the skin behind his ear, soft and chaise.

"The ice has been on too long," she says softly, kissing his skin again as she finishes.

That is not what he expected. That isn't what she was thinking, can't be. She's deflecting, but that's okay. They'll talk in the morning. Right now his partner is straddling his chest and kissing his neck, tender and gentle so he most certainly isn't thinking about his ankle and he doubts she is either.

Twenty-minutes-on, twenty-minutes-off may be a concept she's considering, but it seems unlikely it has to do with the cold objects at his ankle.

He chuckles and squeezes her legs, earns a squeeze in response, her knees pushing gently against his ribs.

"It's fine. They're barely cold any more." As soon as he says it he realises she won't like that fact. That she meant his skin would be frozen with the cold, it may be, but he's also certain the packs have lost their intensity, their effectiveness. But she's more than effective.

She pulls back from his neck and eyes him curiously. He watches her open her mouth, words balancing on the tip of her tongue, then she must answer her own question as she flicks her eyes to his lips, slides her fingers down to his shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

She kisses his mouth softly then lifts herself off him. The loss is immense. The pressure he puts on her thighs is futile, trying to draw her back, stop her escape. She's ignoring it.

Damn it.

She's freeing a pack from the cloth, leaning against his knees before he can even register she's gone. She's replaced her leg on the couch, curling it beneath herself as she faces the other way, leaning some of her weight against his legs.

He skims his fingers over her back, enjoying the fact she hasn't tugged her jumper down, nor has she moved to right the tank that's rumpled around her arm pits. He has to swallow at the thought, amazed with how comfortable she is with this, with them. She hasn't moved to get rid of the evidence, right herself and make him work all over again to get to the same place, to make her remember.

But he would.

He'd take the slow start. If it means he winds up making out with his partner while she straddles him again. He can manage.

He slides his fingers over her hip, a silently plea to turn back around. When she touches his calf with her hand, a warning she's sliding down to his ankle again, to inspect he assumes, he stops his hand movements, curious and intrigued by her, by the arch of her back and the rippled of her back as she leans forward, her sacrum visible as she shifts.

He smiles. He has to wonder if he can get away with staring at her arse now. He doubts it. She'll still glare at him, definitely if they were at the precinct. But right now, with the curve of her back and her bare skin, the skin beneath his hand, he's pretty sure she wouldn't mind too much. But she wouldn't admit it if asked.

"Still hurt?" she asks softly as she reaches it, skimming the edges of the swelling lightly with her fingers, warm against his cool skin. He skims his fingers over her back, mimicking her motions on his ankle, gentle, except the fact her skin is warm under his touch.

"Not really. But I've been… otherwise occupied." He skims her back again, pressing a little harder, a more full contact. As the heat of his palm touches her back he watches her raise her shoulders and drop her head, letting her hair cascade around her face, he can tell she's smiling. He wants to bury his fingers in it again when he spots the places his fingers have been, the kinks in the otherwise loose curls. He's dishevelled her, left a mark, not on her skin, but something he'll have to remember, be wary of. She'll kill him if he ever makes her hair look like that while they're on the job.

But that's assuming she'll let him do it again.

He feels her remove the second pack and withdraw her hand, skimming the top of the swelling as she withdraws. He watches her nod in acknowledgement, is amused by the fact she's not commenting, not discussing it. She really doesn't want to talk about this change, whatever's happening.

When her hand has settled back to sliding along his calf (when did she roll his pants up?), he slides his hand around to her stomach, amused that it's still bare too, her sweats hanging baggy off her frame. He feels her grip his good leg, anticipating his next move.

She's spot on.

He hauls her backwards and raises the leg she's clinging to futilely.

"Castle!" she protests feebly as she falls.

He chuckles as he pulls her against himself, arms firm around her as he keeps her on the couch, she's balanced well over the edge, but he's got her, won't let her fall. When she rolls into his body a little, flinging an arm across his chest, clinging, he knows she won't pull away, not yet anyway.

He digs his elbow into the edge of the cushion, keeping his hold steadfast and lifting her a little, bringing her closer. He presses his mouth to her neck, hot and open, grateful her hair has fallen away, splayed behind her. "You don't need to do that, stay here." He's ignoring the lack of cold emitting from the packs she's pressing against his stomach. They feel warm through his clothes, not even the slightest chill.

"Castle…" But she's arching her neck, letting him, egging him on so he continues. He trails his lips down the line of her neck, finding a tendon that's pulled taunt with the angle of her head, away from him, barely fighting as he nips lightly with his teeth then sucking the skin into his mouth.

He hears her shuddered response. He feels her drop the weights of the packs on his stomach, clutching instead at the material beneath her hand. He also feels the second she snaps out of it, feels her physically respond, retreating.

She rolls off the couch, squats beside him on the floor, watching, like she'll spring up at any second, move far away.

He's too busy smirking at the glint in her eye, watching her stare at his mouth to register that she's moving, she's too quick. She leers over him for a second, a hand at his shoulder, keeping him down as she presses her mouth to his, soft, gentle, an assurance.

"Come back." He's whining, a hand on the back of her knee, clinging, begging, and she's not even calling him on it or rolling her eyes, just swiping the bags from his stomach.

She scoffs as she turns and walks away, knowing full well he can't follow. "I'll be two seconds, literally."

She's doing it deliberately, rolling her hips a little more than normal, for his benefit, or maybe it's her bare feet on the tiles, the fact her back is still visible, and he knows how close he can get now, grab at her hips and keep her against him. He flicks his eyes up as her hair moves, she's turned to look back.

He's grinning like a fool and doesn't even care. She's a little coy, like she knows he's watching and is revelling in it. Of course she knows. She always has.

"Castle, are you deaf?" He hears her speak, voice jolting him from her coy expression.

"Sorry," he offers, clearing his throat. He's not sorry, not at all.

"Want some painkillers?" Now she's smirking at him, leering as she continues to walk across the room. She will be the death of him.

"Uh, yeah." He blinks, flicks his eyes to hers again. "Yes, please."

He watches her turn back and let her shoulders shrug as she chuckles quietly to herself. He stops the shared noise as he realises what happens when she moves her shoulders, what it feels like beneath his fingers, his hands.

She better get back here.

* * *

><p><em>I'd love you hear your thoughts again. The response to this has been overwhelming, thank you all for reading. I've already got the next chapter half written so the pace of this will pick-up : )<em>


	8. Chapter 8

"Two?" she asks as she opens the cupboard door, hiding her face so he can't see her smile. The way he's looking at her is affecting her as much as the way he's touching her.

She needs to get a handle on this, rein it in a little. Sure, they're doing this, they most certainly have been and she certainly won't be stopping now. She's humming with it, him. She won't let it stop. She won't stop his hands from wandering. Why bother? He's so timid, so hesitant that it's nothing less than tender. She'd expected him to crush her breasts in his palms and never let go, let it go further. She'd expected to have to slow it down, cool it off. But she doesn't. He's so timid, so hesitant, so… loving that she knows, she can tell, he understands, he's on the same page – as always.

It can't reach an inevitable conclusion and they both know it. She is immeasurably grateful.

She can do this. Really can. She'd expected that when they reached this point, the transition to _more_ it would be painful, secrets coming out and an inevitable fight that could easily set them back six months. Another summer wasted.

But-

"Please," he answers, startling her. He's snapped her out of it.

Not tonight. They will talk in the morning. She swallows and falls heavily back down onto the hard floor, the bones of her heels giving a soft thud as they hit the floor, her body sliding down the fridge of to the floor. She closes the cupboard and realises she'd grabbed two pills without waiting for his response, too busy hiding from his gaze to feel it still on her.

She turns his head as she feels it again, intense and gentle all at once. She rolls her eyes as she finds him watching her, as soon as she's moved he's lifted a finger to beckon her back over.

She shakes her head, disagreeing.

"You need water as well, right?" She's teasing, deliberately, stalling a little, nervous because as soon as she goes back there he won't let her go again. not until she can force him to move to her bed. Well, she won't have to force him to her bed, but she most certainly will have to prod him, the way his ankle has swollen, purple and distended, the journey to her bed will be a very slow one.

She slides a glass off the counter to run under the faucet, she used it before, had a mouthful in between the rapid inspection of her apartment and getting changed but that's not exactly cause for alarm before. Not that it ever was before. But now it seems to hold more implications, sharing a cup, they've done it more than she can count, just a mouthful stolen here or there. But now it's different, his tongue pressed against the smooth glass, where hers had been barely an hour before.

She swallows as she presses the pills deeper into her hand, filling the glass with enough so he can take a few mouthfuls.

She's run out of reasons to stay in her kitchen, stay a safe distance, stay on her side of the wall. She blinks for a long second and quickly walks back over to him, standing in front of him as he skims his hand over the back of her knee, her calf.

"Are you planning on drinking this lying down?" She arches a brow, watches him smirk as she smiles. "If you want I can just tip it on you now." She tips the glass a little, suggesting she will do it.

He groans, pulls his hands from her knees and settles his elbows into the cushions lifting himself, repositioning.

He sits slowly and she gives him a second, notices how he barely moves his leg. She bumps his good knee with one of hers and smiles. "You good?" she asks softly as she hands off the pills.

He shakes his head and she feels her gut clench. The shifting must have jostled it a little, reminded him of the stretched ligaments, the swollen skin, the muscle taunt, the nerves aflame reminding him of it constantly.

Then his hand is at the back of her knee again, pulling her down, quickly.

"Castle, your ankle," she manages as he forces her right leg against his left, folded tight around his hand. Except it's not, he's just slide it free, up the back of her thigh.

"My ankle will be fine if you give me that glass." He takes it from her other hand as she grips the wrist of his other hand.

She watches as he tosses the pills into his mouth and takes a gulp of the water, screws up his face, then relaxes, forcing himself not to fight the bitter taste and to swallow it.

He does.

She smiles as he opens his mouth as if repositioning his tongue and letting in some more air will help.

She shakes her head and takes the glass back from him.

He doesn't fight her so the taste can't be too horrid.

She pulls his wrist off her leg and leans back to set the glass on the edge of the table, except she can't, he's got his hand at the back of her other knee now. Two free hands.

She bites her lip, glad her hair is covering her face, concealing her smile.

She spins her body anyway, twisting to set the glass on the edge, glad she's agile enough, he's understanding enough, to move her body around him.

She doesn't even turn back to face him properly before he pulls her other knee toward the edge of the couch. When it hits the edge of the cushion he smirks, smug, as she sets her weight against the cushion, letting his hand guide her.

She knows where he's going with this, again. But couldn't fight it if she tried, doesn't want to bother, feels no desire to protest, even feebly.

She lets him pull her leg across the cushion as she shits her weight to the leg already beside his. He's moving her, positioning her so she's straddling his lap. Yet another position she would have scoffed at hours before.

"You're back," he observes as he, once again, slides his hand from beneath her knee, sliding up along the back of her thigh.

"I said I would be," she scoffs, feeling him pulling her thighs, fingers feather light as they grip and guide her down to settle on his own.

"Hmm," he hums as he slides his hands higher up her thighs, smirking as he watches her.

She gives a soft chuckle, soft and on an exhale, but it's there. She knows he heard it.

Then she squeaks, swallows against the shock of it, of the movement.

His fingers pressing into her arse as he slides her down his lap in a fluid movement. She hadn't even been sitting on his lap yet and now he's got her pressed closer than they were before, when he dragged her onto his body, along the length.

"Hmm," he hums again as he uses his newfound upper hand, the superiority and control, to his advantage, stealing her mouth with his own.

She abandons his wrists is favour of his face, his chin and that stubble, raspy and a reminder he's here, cutting against her skin to jolt her senses. She's really here. She's straddling Richard Castle, on her couch. Granted he started it (this time), but she's straddling her partner, her best friend.

She inhales sharply against his mouth, it comes out as a hiss against his mouth as he opens his mouth around the air. Then his tongue, thick and heavy, finds her bottom lip, stealing that into his mouth too.

She lets him have it for a second, all teeth and soothing as she slides her fingers over the corners of his jaw, tender, hopefully a reminder of intimacy not entirely the heat she can already feel radiating from herself and from him. It's coming so hard and so fast she's not sure they'll be able to stop this.

She touches her tongue to his top lip, traces the line and feels him grip her arse in response. She smiles and her lip is returned to her, briefly. Then his tongue is on hers, hot and languid. She can taste the pills he swallowed as well as the way he tastes, the way his mouth tastes when mixed with hers. She likes it she decides as he exhales, opening his mouth and touching his tongue to the back of her teeth before he goes back to his luxurious pace, slow and voluptuous movements.

She's not sure this man understands that he knows what she needs, what she wants, before she even does herself. She'll have to tell him, tomorrow. She likes the thought of waking up with him, simple and routine, as much as she likes the thought that she's straddling his lap while he pours himself into a kiss, while she catches him and manages to pour some of herself back, where she can get a move in edgewise.

She shifts a little, putting her weight on his good leg, on her leg on that side as he continues to stroke her tongue with his.

She slides her tongue along the roof of his mouth as he grips her arse hard again and leans back into the cushions, not breaking apart as they are surrounded by them, falling deep into the gap.

She feels him shift his weight, lifting on his good leg and she groans into his mouth at the contact, the way he's pressing down with his hands while lifting with his hips. He will be the death of her.

And all he did was slide himself down the couch a little, slouching now while she straddles him, leaning over.

Sex with this man would kill her. Actually, it will probably kill them both.

It's lucky then he's pulling back, bumping his forehead into her own, causing her to open her eyes and meet his gaze.

She wants to say something but can't, so she settles for continuing the stroking with her fingers and keeping her forehead against his.

She's not sure how long they sit like that, but it's comfortable. Mingled breath and an intimacy, a proximity they can't rival yet. Her feet have fallen asleep, legs numb from the knee down. But as long as she doesn't move that'll be fine. It's his fingers dancing at her back that have her in a trance, breathing when he does, only breaking the rhythm to sigh intermittently. But its okay, she quickly falls back into step.

"Kate," he mutters before kissing her mouth, once then twice. She's almost certain he only does it the second time because he can, because she opened her eyes, unslackened her body and smiled sleepily at him.

"Sorry," she offers as she meets his mouth the third time, because she can.

"We should go to bed," he mutters.

"No. Comfortable," she huffs and kisses him again. She's not that tired, really. She's just warm with the proximity and the closeness and enveloped by the security of his arms, his chest, his lap.

He chuckles and kisses her again. She presses her tongue into his mouth, trying to prove her point, hot and insistent. She wasn't almost asleep.

He draws his tongue out, trailing it over the roof of her mouth as he retreats. "Five more minutes," he agrees and slides his hands back to her arse, grabbing at it through the thick material.

She makes a noise, not sure if it's protest at only five minutes or approval of his return to contact, pressing her back into his hips. She shifts a little over his lap, deliberate and planned.

His response was not expected though. He rakes his fingers over her, pressing down hard as he clamps her to him. When his thumb hits her thigh he raises up a little, then does it again, sliding his hands out across her arse and rises to meet her hips as she presses against him.

It doesn't hurt but he's clinging to her, elbows twitching against her knees as he fights for control.

She presses her mouth to his neck, hot and open mouthed as he stills, a haggard breath exhaled against her cheek.

"Do it again," she mutters against his skin, amused by the husk in her throat, words catching. It's almost pleading. She doesn't care. It's not like he's in a position to judge. The way his hands grip her, tighter, suggest he more than heard her, he's following her instruction.

"Again," she rasps against his ear as she nips the earlobe.

She drops the flap of skin as he slides his hands into her sweats, gruff and aroused, no tenderness, just need.

But then his hands grip much harder than before. Her sweats were not a mask for this fierceness. He's just realised she's not wearing anything other than her sweats. No thong, no panties. Nothing.

That has to be it.

Then she has to grip his shoulders as he latches onto the skin of her neck, almost knocking her off balance. Well not really, the grip on her arse would have kept her from falling off him completely. But she keeps herself close, where she wants to be, as he nips and sucks the skin on her neck, dragging his fingers across her skin repeatedly.

He finds her ear on the fourth movement, slow and deep drags across her skin. Fingers lingering now as much as they are dragging. She doesn't even care if there are marks from this. She's been watching him stare at her arse for as long as she's known him, this has been a long time coming.

"Do you always sleep like this?" he rasps against the back of her ear and she turns her face further away from him, giving him the expanse of her neck in answer. But his only response is to nip the edge of her earlobe, chasing. Seems she's not getting away that easily.

"Kate, do-" His voice is rasping against her ear again and she squirms, earning her a shift of his hips.

"Sometimes," she answers finally, cutting off his second question, turning towards him to claim his mouth. No more ear whispering, not when he sounds like that, so aroused, so gruff but so in control of it, measured.

She's not going to share all the nuances of her bedroom habits with him, not tonight. He can find out for himself.

She gasps as she opens her eyes to that realisation, opens her eyes to find him there with her.

Luckily he's dragging his fingers over her skin again so he's not suspicious.

But he wouldn't have to be suspicious, he'd just ask about it. And she'd have to explain, she's shocking herself because she's considering that this is the beginning of a lot of nights spent like this, straddling him and she doesn't mind. Well, that's not true. She doesn't mind straddling her partner, it's got more to do with the fact it doesn't terrify her that has her gasping.

He claims her mouth, so certain and self-assured that she can't do anything but smirk against him and wind her fingers back to his hair, to his face. Content to let him realise for himself that she's in this and she knows it, that she's almost ready to admit it.


	9. Chapter 9

The noises she's making will kill him. Actually kill him. They're as effective as a bullet cracking his skull would be. They course through him just as a bullet would leaving brains and blood splattered across the wall behind him.

Then she draws his tongue into her mouth and sucks it deep into her mouth. Okay, he was wrong. He wasn't dead before.

Now he's dead.

His forearm muscles twitch, quivering under the strain of contraction, of pressure, of her skin, her arse in his hands. They can twitch all they want, beg and plead with him to let her go, but he won't. Not ever.

He slides his fingers over her skin again, not bothering to stop as the elastic drags over his hands, following his ascent to her back. He feels her shiver, so he retraces, unhitches the elastic and presses his fingers into the small of her back again. Dragging his fingers over her arse may make her groan into his ear, make breathy demands and make her slide her tongue over his earlobe, but the way she arches as he touches her back causes her pelvis to arch into his lap and the two just don't compare.

He slides his tongue from her mouth as he drags his fingers up her back. He's positive she wasn't ready to let go yet, as she follows it with her own, chasing with her mouth, applying pressure even as he slides his tongue back. She nips the tip as he pulls it back through her teeth. But that's his chance to take. He kisses her mouth as it closes, sealing his lips over hers, simple and gentle.

But then she moves her fingers through his hair and pulls away with a huff, a protest.

He finds her spinal muscles, it's not hard, they're tight, running along the length of her spine, flanking the ridges and following the contours of her back.

It doesn't take long before she arches into his hands again, spurring him on.

"Hmm," she hums, brushing her mouth across his.

"You need to relax more," he mutters as she slides her cheek along his, along the angle of his jaw as he kneads the muscle, working his way up, climbing.

"Hmm," she hums again, then chuckles softly. "You're helping," she mutters to his skin, nose brushing stubble as she confesses.

He finds a knot, a hard twist in the fibres, a mesh, a disturbance, a section of muscle she's twisted, pulled then let hardened, too stubborn to relax.

He is most certainly helping, she's putty in his hands.

"I can tell. I can keep helping," he whispers the offer as he kisses a line down her neck, so grateful her sweatshirt is baggy, hanging off her shoulders a little. Maybe he's just pulling it off with his wandering hands. It doesn't matter.

"Hmm," she hums. She's dragging her lips over the stubble, kissing every half a second. "No more talk." He hears her mutters as she finds the corner of his mouth.

He couldn't agree more, for now.

He runs his fingers over another knot, working it until it's gone. This shouldn't be so intimate, so arousing. He's working knots out of her bare back while she straddles him on her couch. Actually, this is quite… appropriate, for them. A heat and a fire burning between them, an anchor point.

When he finds her shoulder blades, she rolls her scapula over his hands as he wedges his fingers beneath, working the tight muscles, the lifted bone providing a gateway to the tight muscle beneath. She lets his mouth go, makes a beeline for his neck, headed to his ear, apparently.

She goes about her movements while he continues his own, toying with anything he can find, knots and tight spots that make her stop breathing as he works them loose.

"Ah," she gasps suddenly.

He eases the pressure and cranes his neck so he can see her face, checking. "You okay?"

"Hurts," she answers, honestly. But she's leaning into his hand, urging him silently to reapply the pressure, to go back to kneading his fingers between two ribs.

He obeys her request, reapplying the pressure, watching her curiously as he does, waiting for a signal to stop. She doesn't give one so he travels further along once he feels the muscle slacken beneath his fingers. Her intercostals muscles should not be this tight, restricting her breathing. It would physically constrict her chest.

"Didn't your therapist loosen these?" he asks.

She turns to face him, looks up and meets his eyes. Then she smiles, wide and open, and he doesn't want her to ever stop, not when he's the reason behind it.

But then her eyes flash something else, darker, more intense and he loses her to her thoughts. He watches her chuckle, like she's just shared a private joke with herself at a memory. He's not naïve; she's been with other guys, touched by other men in ways far more intimate than this. He'll fix that, soon. But a therapist shouldn't have her giggling, chuckling. Not like that.

"What?" He's curious, concerned. She's laughing like her therapy was a joke, some dirty joke. Nothing about those scars is a joke. She wouldn't, couldn't be laughing about that.

But she can't be laughing about the other possibility… She wouldn't have… He's not sure he's ever considered himself jealous of a physical therapist before. But the thought of this guy touching her, his partner, his muse, his…

That wasn't what he asked about so that can't be what she's thinking.

"Never from that angle," she answers finally. How long has he been waiting for her answer? It feels like ten minutes, but it's probably been two seconds.

Then she wiggles against his hand, showing him he's travelled to the scar, that he's basically grazing her chest again, working every square inch of skin beneath his finger, gentle but persistent.

Oh.

"Hmm," he hums as he presses the pads of his fingers into her ribs, deep into her skin, the space. "I see," he mutters softly, stealing her mouth softly, gentle.

She scoffs at him, against his mouth as she touches her fingers to his face. "You don't see." It's so quiet he barely hears it. But he's certain it's a challenge.

He stills his other hand. He stops it rubbing futile circles at the ridge of her shoulder, soothing while his other hand worked, deep and harsh.

He withdraws it, sliding it deliberately back down her back. He catches the edge of her sweatshirt and lifts it slowly, half-expecting a protest, a stilling hand. But he doesn't get one.

She just presses her mouth against his, hard but tender, careful as she removes her hands from his face, stealing the edges of the sweater from him and tugging it up. He waits until the last second before he pulls back from her mouth and opens his mouth to watch her disappear behind the thick material, a flash of fleece as she pulls it over her head.

He slides his other hand up her back, trailing over the skin, no longer slick but scattered with goose bumps from the shock of the cold in the air, the touch of his hand, gentle and wandering, exploring.

He stills his hand, leaving it on her waist, brushing his thumb across her stomach as he presses the other into the scar, urging her to twist, spin, turn. She eyes him curiously but follows the instruction.

She wraps her arm around his shoulder, curling herself against him as he slides his other hand around her back. She understands. She trusts him.

He feels her shiver as he kneads the muscle again, both hands now.

"Hmm," she offers into the fabric of his sweats. He can barely hear her hum, let alone when she continues. "This is not what I thought you were going to do."

"Complaining?" he offers softly as he angles his head down following his thumb across the curve of a rib, the arch, trailing his mouth over the soft skin, the scar.

She grips his shoulder, tight, like she's going to fall over, like he's just pulled the rug from under her and she needs to get her footing, needs an anchor, needs him.

"Hmm," he hums, letting his mouth roam the skin, gentle and searching. He doesn't really know what he's looking for, but he's found she's relaxed, less tight, no more tension.

His mouth follows his hands again, fingers trailing as they follow the curve of her ribs. He feels her dig her fingers into his back, trailing them down and then back up, nails dragging, catching in the thick material.

He doesn't lift his head, but shifts her off him, a little keeping her at arm's length. No more hiding, not behind walls, not even behind him.

But then she's got her hands there, holding herself off him, away, trusting.

He feels her grip tighten as his cheek grazes the soft skin, chin skimming the swell of her breast as his fingers find the cartilage leading to her sternum. He follows the line until his fingers hit the bump, the swell of scar tissue.

He hears her breath catch and presses his mouth to her skin, blindly kissing the slope, making the descent.

He presses his mouth to it.

"No more," she mutters as she pulls his face away, back to her own.

He blinks, confused. But then he sees her face and he understands.

"Okay. I understand," he promises. He does.

But she's shaking her head. So apparently he doesn't.

"In the morning?" he asks. He wants to talk now but the way she's looking at him, she doesn't need to say anything. He can read every emotion, every expression. She doesn't need to even meet his eyes from him to see.

But she does and blinks heavily. He listens to her exhale, feels her breath on his skin. When she sucks her lip into her mouth and bites down, the pink skin turning white, he wraps an arm around her pulls her close.

"Kate…" he starts. But she opens her mouth, interrupting.

He watches her rolls words over her tongue, completely silent. Whatever she's saying, to herself, doesn't compute. She can't vocalise it. He's about to steal back the chance, the silence she can't fill, reassure and comfort. Tell her everything.

She's watching him, out of the corner of her eyes. Then she's not. She closes the gap in a split second, presses her mouth to his, hot and insistent.

That wasn't what he expected.

He tries to pull back but she follows, leans over him and wrapping her body around him.

"In the morning," she murmurs against his mouth as she grabs his hands, winding her fingers through his and moving them up with hers to her hair, her neck.

He isn't sure how long she stays there, mouth on his, hot and insistent, trying to communicate everything he already knows, everything she feels and thinks and wants and needs. Everything he's always known.

When she swallows and presses her nose against his, watching the rise and fall of her own chest, he fists his hands in her hair, rests them on her shoulders at the base of her skull.

"You good?" he asks quietly, curious.

She flicks her eyes up to him and her tongue darts out, he watches her swipe her top lip then smile. He gives himself a second to watch it, take in the genuine expression before he flicks his eyes back to hers.

"I'm ready for bed."

He raises his eyebrows at her, gives her a wicked smile, playing it up, pretending he doesn't understand. "Oh, are you now?" he teases as he skims a thumb over the base of her skull.

"Hmm, I am." She finds his mouth again, soft and quick, habitual and sure.

He steals her mouth again, slides his tongue over hers, twitching his fingers over the skin at the base of her neck. When she quivers he has no doubt the mess of hair in his hands is tickling her neck.

"Peas?" she asks.

He laughs around her tongue, following it back into her mouth again.

She pulls back, leaving him with his tongue poised at the edge of his mouth. He closes his mouth over it.

"We need to ice it before we go to bed. Those cold packs won't be ready again."

He nods, agreeing completely with everything she's saying. Mainly the part about them going to bed.

She pokes his chest as he leans back in to seal his mouth on hers again.

"What?" he asks, curious.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" She raises a brow and he knows he most certainly missed something. Can she blame him?

He swallows and shakes his head.

She eyes him suspiciously, like repeating herself is a burden, a hefty task, weighted and meaningful. "I asked if you think you can walk. Cause I can go and get some pillows and we can camp out here if you can't it's fine."

He huffs out a breath and pulls her mouth down to meet his, quick but firm, certain. "I can manage. You'll just have to stay close, just in case I fall." He lets his hands unknot from hair as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

"Just in case you fall, huh?" she teases. "What do you think I'm going to do? Catch you?"

He chuckles. "You'd try." He wouldn't even make her consider it. He can catch a doorframe, the edge of the table, or just put pressure on his ankle. Swelling or not he won't be-

"Nah," she teases, shrugging. "Just let you fall down like a tonne of bricks."

"You wouldn't." He feigns the horror and drops his arms from around her to regard her, watch her cheeks swell as she smiles in response, the dance in her eyes as her lips curl.

"We'll see. You'll just have to have a little faith." She tugs her tank down, not completely, just so it's not hitched up under her armpits.

"Hmm, I suppose I can do that." He pulls the tank down at the back and she eyes him curiously. "What?"

She opens her mouth. "Just…" He watches her lip twitch as she considers the rest of her sentence. "You're you."

He raises an eyebrow and slides his hands back up the tank, twisting his fingers into the ends of her hair. "Indeed I am myself."

She rolls her eyes and slides off his lap onto the couch. His instincts tell him to follow her, lay himself over her and invest some time exploring a different position. He wants to curse his ankle, but if it wasn't for that he would have dropped her back to the floor earlier and walked out the door. Okay, maybe he would have wormed a cup of coffee out of her, but then he'd have been gone.

"C'mon Castle," she offers her hand to him now she's standing in front of him.

"Won't let me fall?" he asks as he takes her hand.

She pushes his fingers away, slides her hand so she's gripping his wrist. "We'll see." She smirks at him as she tugs on his arm, guiding him up till he's standing in front of her.

"Hey," he mumbles as he stands at full height, sliding his hand down so he catches her elbow. He doesn't need it. He's got his big toe as a point of contact, a balance. It hurts, but he's not leaning on her. She's holding herself up, together, here.

That's all he needs.

"You good?" she asks.

He shakes his head and she grips his forearm, tight.

He seals his mouth over hers, quickly, catching her of guard. "Okay, now I'm good." He rests his forehead against hers, enjoying the fact she's so short sans heels.

"Okay, peas." She steps back and pauses and he can't help but smirk at her. She's waiting for him to fall down.

"I'm fine, go. I'll meet you, somewhere in the hall," he offers, only half kidding.

He watches her bite her bottom lip and smile, amused.

"Okay," she whispers as she takes another step back, watching him as she retreats, still smiling around that well-worn lip. Only on the fourth step does she turn and head into the kitchen, finally trusting he's not about to fall into a heap on the floor.

He watches her walk, tank twisted around her stomach, hips swaying as she moves. She's doing it deliberately. He can't follow. He can't wrap his arms around her and carry her to bed. He can't let her fight and kick her legs out and pretend she doesn't want him to. But he can get there, wait for to follow. He knows she will.


	10. Chapter 10

She doesn't trust his foot. Any time she's had a sprain she's had crutches. She doesn't have crutches here. About the only thing she could offer as a crutch is the big umbrella she keeps with her coats. Unless there's-

She finally tears her eyes from him, still running through scenarios in her head. If only she had a desk chair with wheels she could make him sit on it and push him. Or he could push himself. She lets herself smile, now he can't see, and hurries across to the kitchen. She hears him land heavily on the floor.

A thud.

His heel coming into sharp contact with her floor. You'd think the man would hop on his toes. It sounds like a baby elephant has fallen down. Then he does it again.

Another thud.

Another baby elephant falling. These poor elephants.

She's shaking her head at herself as she swings open the freezer. She's glad he's got to concentrate on not falling over, otherwise he'd be bugging her to know what she's smiling at. Though if he asked she'd tell. That she can talk about.

She swings open the freezer and grabs the peas, feels the weight of the bag in her hands. Not quite enough. She grabs the corn for good measure.

Better safe than sorry. Plus after this... attempt at movement, this stubborn insistence to move himself, he may need them. He may have said he'd like her to wrap herself around him and hold him upright, but he hadn't meant it, there was a heavy humour to his eyes. Like he needed her to know he wasn't meaning it. He just wanted to wrap his arms around her and not have to hop to her bedroom.

Thud.

She fills a new glass with water and grabs the frozen vegetables off the counter, make-shift cold packs will have to do. The glance she stole at the branded ones told her they weren't even chilled below room temperature yet. These will have to do. If they don't she's taking him to the hospital, it's decided. No arguments.

Another thud.

She smiles as she lifts her eyes to watch him move across the room, he's almost reached the hall. Not too bad a pace.

"You okay?" she calls as she reaches the couch, kicking his shoes aside.

"Easy. Cinch," he says. He sounds like he's enjoying it too much. Her downstairs neighbours probably think this baby elephant is running rampant. Or she's just in a foul mood. She has to smirk as she remembers the afternoon she thundered around her apartment, searching for something that's not even important now, only to have the elderly woman from downstairs knock on her door and politely inform her she had a grandson downstairs trying to sleep. She'd been so fury driven she'd just nodded and shut the door on the woman.

She almost feels bad now that it's happening again. But he does it again.

Thud.

And then she doesn't feel anything other than contentment.

She flicks her eyes up as he gives off a chuckle, a boyish giggle. He's reached the doorframe, that pointless arch, leading to her bedroom he'd thundered through before in his own madness, driven only be fear. Ignoring his ankle that's now got him crippled against the frame. But he's still smiling. Always smiling.

She's pretty sure she hasn't stopped either. They're fools, absolute fools.

"Come on slow poke," he teases as he does it again. Hops.

She smiles in response as she drops the peas to the couch, grabbing her sweat shirt and then clutching her armful of supplies to her chest.

"It's not a race Castle. You'll make it worse if you push it." But she's smiling. She's serious, she means it. But she's smiling. He's pushed with them and succeeded so she doubts he'll heed her advice.

"It's fine," he flicks his hand back as she comes through the arch herself. "I'm fine."

She stops and leans against the other side of the arch and it hits her. He's moving toward her bedroom, her bed, her body and her secrets. Everything they are, have always been and everything they will be. He's humming with it, she can see it and bites her lip in response.

She knows she's humming with it too. Too excited at the prospect of Richard Castle wrapped in her sheets, wrapped around her while she wraps herself around him. She shakes her head as he gives her a curious look. She's not going to speak. She's not going to vocalise it.

So she takes a step away, more than ready to toss this stuff in her room so she can come back and build a cocoon with him.

"Hey," he catches her hip. "aren't you going to wait for me?"

She looks over her shoulder at him. He's lucky she didn't whip around, spilt water would make hopping along quiet interesting. But she hasn't. He didn't scare her too much. "You didn't wait for me," she scoffs, huffing out a burst of air for effect.

He didn't. It is true. But he's leaning off the wall to catch her mouth so she stops, does turn, gives him a second. The damn cocoon can wait.

She wishes her arms weren't full as he slips his tongue between the lips she parts in a contented sigh.

"Hmm," he hums into her mouth. She's not sure if he's answering her question, assuring her he did wait. He did, she knows. But in the morning they're discussing that. So maybe it's just pleasure, contentment.

Then she feels him shift, her hip his anchor as he balances on a foot, one leg, one ankle taking all the stain. After hopping so far, quite a distance on one leg, however short, he isn't as steady on his foot. Fatigue has hit him like she expected it would.

"Mm, okay. Bed," she decides as she pulls her mouth back. But then he bites his lip, watching her, coy and curious and she has to suppress the shudder. She leans in again, just for a second, to kiss him softly, slant her mouth over his then pull back, quick and habitual. She likes this new habit.

"Bed" he huffs as she pulls back, the air rolling over her chin, sliding over her cheeks. At least they're in agreement.

"Let me put these down before you move okay?" No more hopping is what she's trying to say.

He nods and steps back. "I'm fine, but if you insist..."

"I'm insisting." She is. She may not be able to catch him if he falls but she can at least shove him at the wall and give him a chance to catch himself.

"It's fine Kate, it's not that bad." He's lying, gritting his teeth just a little as he shifts his weight, foot protesting on cue.

"Castle," she warns. Hoping it's working knowing that's it's not really.

"Okay," he agrees.

She hears him settle against the door of her linen closet as she presses her knees into the side of her bed, settling into too. She doesn't need the support, she just needs the second. She hears the distinct rattle of the door as it adjusts, compensates for his weight. The mattress does the same, conforms. She needed the second and he clearly he needed the break. Stubborn man. She doesn't turn her eyes back to him as she sets the glass down on the bedside before using her now free hand to extract the vegetables from her sweats. She tosses the bags into the middle of the bed to wait for him, for them. She drops the mess of fabric to the floor, hood and arms tangled. She couldn't care less she decides as she kicks it just under the frame. He doesn't need another trip hazard, his own balance will be enough of a hindrance by the time they reach this point.

It's not like she'll need the mess of fabric anyway. There are enough layers on her bed that she could sleep stark naked and still be warm enough. Granted, the cold sheets would be a shock at first but, she'd survive.

She quashes that image. The image accompanied by the company she'd be keeping. Well… the company she's already keeping.

But that's not happening.

Not tonight.

That will cause more problems than it will solve.

She leans off the bed and decides movement is her best course of action. Putting the man himself in the sheets will fix the images, him recovering from his journey will quash the images of nakedness, will clear her mind, steal her focus and her attentions.

She won't need the extra layer, Richard Castle will wrap himself around her all night, let her wrap herself around him in response. Who knows how long the slumber will last. Who knows the inhumane hour she'll be roused from bed by her phone. Who knows when they'll find the time for their conversation. Who knows if he'll even push it.

Of course he'll push it. It will be quiet insistences, silent please. But they'll be there.

She _knows_ they need to have it, of course they do. She needs to tell him she knows, she remembers and that all the damn songs make sense. All of them.

She presses the button on the bottom of her phone, lighting the screen, checking for messages, missed calls. Nothing, good. And it's too late. Or too early. They need to go to bed.

Then she realises, she forgot to grab it.

"You got your phone?" she asks as she turns away from her bedside. She's not going searching for it in the morning.

Thud.

_Damn it, Castle._ That is not a response.

And it mostly certainly wasn't a hop. Have the drugs really kicked in this quickly? Surely not.

She takes a step so she can see him around the doorframe.

_Crap._

"Castle!" she scolds. She told him not to move.

"You need doorknobs that need twisting when you open them," he grunts, in pain.

She doesn't bother to waste time breathing as she moves over to him. She doesn't bother to heed his advice. He's deflecting, she understands.

He's quite a sight and if his face wasn't twisted in discomfort she'd laugh at him. He's caught himself against the shelves of her closet, shoulder deep in a pile of towels, the knee of his left leg on the ground, saving the tender ankle below it, though that is draped across the floorboards at an odd angle.

He grunts as he tries to stand, lever off with a hand on the shelf, use good ankle to support all his weight, again.

"Castle, stop!" She is so close she can almost touch him. Stubborn man can't wait half a second.

"I'm fine." It's pathetic. He's barely trying.

"No you're not." She finally touches his shoulder, gripping tight as he manages to haul himself up a little more. She undoes his fingers from the doorknob and twists them through hers before guiding them to her hip. She's so glad now she positioned herself between him and the door.

She watches him watch her, opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but she silences him with a look. A plea to let her help.

Everything he's ever done for her, the help he's given, the unwavering faith and patience. _This_ she can do. He has to let her start paying him back.

Then he grips her hip and hauls her close. She slides both hands under his arms in response and helps him hoist himself up completely.

"You couldn't wait two seconds?" She arches a brow at him, still amused that she has to look so far up at him.

"Your door handle-"

She watches the rise and fall of his larynx and drops the stern look, standing on her toes so she's at the same height. She's not his point of balance anymore, but he's still anchored to her.

"My door handle is not your personal crutch, Castle. It's not designed for that," she offers quietly, proximity making volume irrelevant.

He tugs her forward and finds her mouth with a seemingly practised ease.

She supposes, as he slides his tongue along her bottom lip, seeking an entry she's happy to grant, that this is quite a practised routine now. It comes so naturally, so simply that standing with him barely three foot from her bedroom, and almost six from her bed itself, where they stood not too long ago as he clung to her so tightly she thought he might just crush her chest. But she had been clinging to him just as tightly, just as fiercely.

"Bed," he mutters as he pulls back, flicking the closet door shut behind her.

And she smiles wide. "You good hop-a-long?" she asks, teasing as she steps back, keeping her hands at his shoulders.

"Hmm," he hums.

Thud.

He seals his mouth to hers again, soft and certain. "I'm good."

She steps back again, understanding his game, his give and take, the push and pull.

When her ankle hits the doorjamb as she steps back again, she knows exactly where she is at the threshold, his point of no return, the very place he couldn't enter before. That sounds insanely vulgar and-

Thud.

He meets her mouth and forces her back into the tiny corner of the meeting door jambs, sliding his hands over her hips, grazing thighs and tickling ribs.

"Give me a sec," he says as he leans his forehead against hers.

She runs her hands over the hair at the nape of his neck, understanding, content to just lean here a moment while he regains some of the control, the strength in his ankle. She's not picking him up off the floor again.

She presses her mouth to his. "Need a break?" she teases, it's empty she knows he can tell as he chuckles gently, his shoulders shaking beneath her hands.

"Nope. I need to pee while we're here." She watches him flick his eyes into the dark bathroom and can't help but smirk as he brings them back to hers. She hadn't even considered that he'd have to pee at some point.

"Nice, Castle. Kill the mood." It slips out before she can stop it. It had been tickling her tongue, swirling around her brain but she shouldn't say things like that, not while he's got her wedged between his body and a doorframe.

He leers over her then, nose hovering beside hers as he moves his head back. She's not about to lean forward and close the gap-

Thud.

Her head hits the frame. Not too hard, but it's audible.

He smirks at her, proud and she pouts a little, for effect.

"I'll get the mood back," he mutters against her mouth, lips so close it hurts. But she won't move, won't cave. Just watching him.

She darts her tongue out, wetting her lips. It's almost involuntary but it's planned, deliberate. It satisfies her need to tease him too, torment her tormentor.

He brushes his closes his lips over her bottom one, soft and quick. Not enough. But then he's stealing her top lip into his mouth, feather light.

But she doesn't move into it, just lets him.

Only after he's brushed his mouth against the corners of her mouth does she steal his lips as he moves to nip at her bottom lip. She can't hold out any longer.

"Go pee," she mimics his phrasing. "Then get back out here." She smirks and pushes her hand against his chest. She needs him to get back out here.

"I'll call-"

"I'll be here, its fine." She brushes it off. He doesn't need to say he'll ask for help, she needs to tell him she's here to help. Though she really hopes she doesn't have to pick him up off the floor again. but there bathroom is small enough that he can probably bounce off towel rails and corners and benches.

He'll be fine.

Thud.

She listens again, hears the shuffle.

Thud.

So long as he slows down a little. She's not going anywhere. And apparently the baby elephant isn't either.


	11. Chapter 11

He's in the bathroom, leaning against the counter. "Kate!" he calls.

"You decent?" Her voice travels back through the door, he can hear the smile.

He sighs, makes it audible, completely exaggerated. "Yes."

Then she opens the door, leaning against the frame heavily the way he's leaning against the counter, her counter.

"They've kicked in haven't they…" she offers, it's about half the information he needs.

"They?" He's confused.

"The pills." He watches her swallow.

He narrows his eyes at her. He's trying desperately to convey the fact he doesn't think they were necessary.

"You needed them." That's all he gets, that's her only response. Uh, Kate. It's too late to play these games, no more half-conversations laden with subtext and longing looks. They've moved past it, haven't they?

What has she given him? He can't even think straight. Following his own thought process is… too hard.

"Hmm, I do." He just admitted she was right, directly.

He closes his eyes against the look he knows she's got on her face, knowing and a little smug. He doesn't really care, he's just too tired to focus on her. The pills make him want to sleep, desperately.

She could have told him and he would have been more careful, more aware of the fact they were creeping up on him.

He hears her chuckle. Not fair.

"Come on," she laughs as she tugs him forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, letting him slump over her back.

He's too heavy, he can't.

But she's warm, comfortable.

"What'd you give me?" he manages against her hair. If he keeps nuzzling her hair he's going to lull himself to sleep. But he can't help it.

She stops lifting his body. "Just something the doctor gave me to help me with the pain and sleeping after…"

"Your surgery." Even in a drugged, sleepy state he knows how to dodge, how to give her an out. It was the surgery that's left the bigger scar, the biggest wound took the most out of her. The bullet, that's a battle scar. The surgery signals that it almost killed her. Well it did, twice. But That she almost didn't survive it.

"Hmm, I expected you to make it to bed though." It seems these were prescription strength. Tylenol knocks him out, whatever this is its strong. But his foot doesn't hurt. Which while it is a relief, it probably isn't a good sign.

"Well…" He drawls.

"Well?" She wants him to continue.

"We were kind of side tracked." He points it out like it doesn't matter, like it was no big deal.

"Castle, they take twenty minutes to half-" She stops and he smirks into her hair.

He hums, like he's prompting her to continue, daring her to make defences.

"Yeah okay," she sighs and hefts him up a little more. He helps and finds with her basically beneath him, hovering over her as much as he is, standing is most certainly an easier task. He's pretty sure that should be a more poetic train of thought, there has to be a more apt way of conveying it.

Uh.

Now he's editing his thoughts like he'd edit his novels.

He hears her jaw click, or is it her teeth? He can't tell.

"You good to walk a little?" she asks.

Maybe it was her tongue.

"Use your toes but, otherwise it will hurt in the morning."

"What?" He doesn't follow, not in the slightest.

"Support your left ankle with your toes."

"Hmm," he hums, finding the skin at her neck far too distracting. Apparently she's taken the chance to gather her hair to the side, twisting it together. But it's not tied, like she was interrupted.

He supposes she was.

He's glad. He doesn't want her hair all knotted. It's a sign she's tense, nervous or just annoyed. But this is girlish twisting. Alexis does it too, fiddles with the ends of her hair when she's on the phone. Though that only happens when she's not holding a pen.

Oops. Now she's talking.

"Huh?" he asks, stupidly.

"Castle, follow me." She's too distracting, demanding. Trying to have his attention in several places at once. He just wants to-

Okay now she's gone.

Well, not completely. Her head is still pressed against his chin and he's about to tug her back towards him. She doesn't get to run away.

But then her fingers are pressing into his forearms.

"Bring your left foot forwards then use your big toe so you don't have to hop so much."

"Oh," he understands. Kind of.

She's not discouraging him from wrapping himself around her to lean on, give him a grounding point. He should point out the doorjamb would be more effective but that would be logical.

After the third step they've got such a rhythm that she barely pauses to wait for him to take his step. Things come so easily to them.

"What?" she asks, stopping suddenly and facing him, smirk on her face.

He steals her mouth lazily, missing it already. It's been what? Three minutes? Maybe five and he can't handle it.

She laughs against his lips, over his tongue.

He knows it should spur him on and encourage him. But all he can do continue with what he's doing, sliding his tongue over hers, letting her feel him touch her teeth and the roof of her mouth while she laughs into his mouth.

He likes that sound – laughter, hers.

"Castle?" Her voice isn't harsh just quick, abrupt, like she's trying to wake him.

He supposes she is.

He just meets her eyes. He's so heavy, so lethargic he's even given up raising his eyebrows, or humming in acknowledgement

"You okay?" She's stifling a smile.

"Bed," he manages and she tugs him forward again.

He kisses her when he's hopped closer.

"You good to climb in?" she asks. "I've got to pee."

Oh.

He flicks his eyes past her, over her shoulder. Sure enough, they've reached her bed.

He kisses her again, nibbling her lip a little. He's assaulted with images in her bed. He is assaulted by an array of random images that make little sense, even if he were able to comprehend them. He's seen them all before, flashes of her over the years, his thoughts of her in some-bed alone after a case, or not so alone. He swallows. That's not what he should be talking about. He needs to be thinking about how he'll fit into her bed, where she wants him, where she wants herself, where she wakes up, where she falls asleep, where she lays when she reads. His question is soft, hesitant almost. But it's not, it's just the lethargy. "Where?"

"Bed, Castle."

That's not what he meant. "Yeah, but where do you sleep?" he asks quietly.

"Ah," she hums, understanding his flawed logic, his disjointed thought processes. He'll have to work on getting his mouth to cooperate with his mind. Though with it being so preoccupied at this second, her mouth to his, it is understandable that its concentration is elsewhere.

He gets it back after a drawn-out second, the mouth. Not the control, she's had that for as long as he can remember. Always distracting him, forcing him to concentrate all his energy onto not making a move, not kissing her, not touching her. But no more not touching.

Then he shivers.

On cue she's run her hands down his chest, finally dropping them from his shoulders. He doesn't need her guidance now, he just needs her wrapped around him.

"Just sleep here," she says softly, gesturing beside him. "I sleep in the middle."

"Oh, so you're a bed hog, Detective Beckett," he leers. Well at least he tries for it, it's more like the drawl of an overtired man whose partner has slipped him some sedatives.

She doesn't respond, just presses her mouth to his.

Again? Really, Kate? How will he ever control his damn tongue if she keeps pressing hers to his, sliding it over, exploring, roaming.

"Don't be asleep when I get back," she asserts herself, standing on her toes to meet his eye as she pulls back, rising with him, with the kiss.

"I'll try," he promises.

He does, he tries.

He's jolted into complete consciousness with a flick to the cheek then a soothing kiss. Well the kiss actually feels more searing against his skin than soothing, but it's most certainly not painful.

"I'm awake," he offers as he blindly slides his arms out to pull her against his chest.

"No you're not." She kisses his jaw this time, smiling.

"No, but this is good. You can have your wicked way with me and I'll just lie here."

That earns a chuckle, loose and unbridled. Even though his eyes aren't open he knows she pulled away from his skin to tip her head back with the force of the laughter, letting it out.

"Hmm," she hums, back against his skin apparently. She slides her mouth along his jaw, finding the pulse at his neck. He draws her closer, surprised they're both beneath the sheets. How and when did that happen?

"We both need to sleep. You probably more so." She leers over him as she says it, completely contradicting everything she's saying with her body.

He slides his hands over back, tickles her ribs, not bothering to wait for the shiver to subside before he slides down, abruptly sliding beneath her pants again to drag his fingers over the skin, haul her close.

She definitely doesn't think they need sleep, hands now on either side of his head, holding herself above him while he pulls her down to him, perfectly aligned.

He hears her hiss and feels her bring her mouth to his, crashing against him like he's just crashed her into him.

He's not complaining.

Except he is now.

She's gone, back down onto the mattress beside him.

"You're too tired for that," she mutters against his ear, kissing the cartilage softly, nipping it only with her lips.

"No…" he protests then realises he has no argument, he can't even convince himself. He's quite happily noting she hasn't rolled too far away. He's still got his hands on her arse.

She kisses him again, quick and habitual. Like she can't stop.

He finally opens his eyes to find her biting her lip watching him.

"Hmm, so you are awake." She's taunting him with her voice and her mouth. She's smiling around the lip biting. He can see her tongue in the gap, right there, waiting. Why did she have to drug him?

"A little," he offers.

"Barely," she amends, her lips against his, quick and sure. She's amazing, he's never letting her go. Conversation or not, secrets or not, wall or not, fight or not, Third World War or not. He's here. Not going anywhere.

Well apparently she has other ideas.

She rolls in his arms and he quickly withdraws his hands, hears her chuckle in response. No matter how close he is, how much he is teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, that was mean.

"It's safe now," she offers, twisting her fingers through his and sliding his hands back down from her ribs, where they fell after their automatic withdrawal. It's a silence promise of trust and an encouragement to get comfortable, hands on her hips, thighs, stomach, she doesn't seem to mind. She just wants him close.

He settles one on her hip and skims the other over her stomach, still exposed from the twisting earlier.

He presses his mouth to her shoulder. "You good?" he asks quietly.

"Hmm," she offers. A hand finds his wrist, the one skimming her stomach, and settles there, toying with a tendon at the joint.

"Want me to turn the light off?" he offers quietly, not really wanting to pull away, but wanting her to have to either. He is closer after all, drugged state or not he can manage the light.

"Nope." Her lips smack together on the 'ope' and he wants to kiss her again. He settles for the shoulder exposed in front of him.

"Why not?" he asks her skin, the line of her scapula, a ridge formed from her hunched position against him. Now he's glad she tied her hair. She must have done it before, the loose ponytail lets it still tickle his chin, but gives him an expanse of skin to explore.

"I'll read for a bit. Not really ready to sleep," she shrugs, nudging his nose as he follows the motion. "I'll turn it off, it's fine." She's assuring him, like this is his place and she's disrupting his routine.

He leans forward, sees that indeed she has a book.

"Okay," he says. He hasn't got the concentration span to read with her, though he wants to. He wants to curl himself around her and read until she stops turning pages, asleep against his chest, book open in front of her.

But he's too tired.

"Get some sleep, Castle." She voices his thoughts. He should stop fighting it and let it overwhelm him.

"Until tomorrow, Kate." He's got his eyes tight shut, but he peppers her back with his mouth, kissing through the material and not. When his mouth finds it's way up to her hair, losing itself in the ponytail, he stops, forehead against her neck as she raises her hand from his wrist. Then sets it back down.

Indeed they're doing this tomorrow. Fights or not, arguments or not. He's not going to bed without her, not anymore. Never again.

* * *

><p><em>Oof.<em>

She drops onto his chest, launching herself over him to answer the phone, silencing the shrill ring. It's like she's trying not to wake him, except launching herself at his chest kind of makes that point moot. She can deal with it. No one would be ringing him at such an unreasonable hour, except her. But she's right here, he slides his hand over her back, tracking her, soothing, keeping her there.

"Beckett."

This is what it will be like now. Him waking up to her sprawled across him while she answers the phone, trying to sound professional and hot as hell while he forces himself from the depths of sleep. He could certainly live with that.

She's listening, gone quiet, finding out all the details of the scene.

"Let me just get-" She shoves off him, hard, as she rolls away. He doesn't follow, fine be like that.

But he knows she needs to find a pen and paper or something to write on.

He curls into the space she's just lifted herself from, sitting up with the phone, no longer beside him.

He keeps his arm lazily around her waist though. He needs her close now. In the haze of a morning in her bed, he needs her close.

"Yeah, I know." She's speaking again.

"Yeah he's here, he's fine." She looks over her shoulder at him quickly.

Wait, what?

He flicks his eyes up to curve of her back. Something's wrong.

Very wrong.

"Do you want me to wake him?" Okay now she's lying. He reaches a hand up, finds it batted away.

It's getting curiouser and curiouser. He has to know, he tries again. Receives the same response.

"Oh… Okay." Now he wants to touch her, soothe her. Why is Lanie calling now? It has to be Lanie right? Unless it's someone else…

Though he doubts that. He really should find out more about the few friends she's got, when she sees them.

"I can do that."

When she bats his hand away a fourth time he gives up, kisses a hot path across the small of her back instead.

"No, he went back to sleep."

He nips the fat at the edge of her hip. The term love handles barely works, but he's proving he's here and she's lying. And that she should get off the phone if she knows what's good for her.

She touches a hand to his ear, threatening a twist.

He slides his body around hers, dragging his useless left ankle behind him. Like a mermaid or a seal. Hmm… He doesn't like those connotations. This better be a short lived impairment.

When he curls around her she leans back, into his legs.

Then he realises.

She's on his phone.

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><p><em>Thoughts? Hate me?<em>


	12. Chapter 12

She groans, ignoring the shrill call of the phone, her phone, insistent on its continued disruption of her sleep. She loves her job, but the interruptions to sleep, the rude awakens, is a fault – why can't people be murdered during the waking hours?

It makes another noise and his hand slides over her stomach, like he's withdrawing from her, stirring, waking. She doesn't want him to wake. She rolls onto her stomach and uses an arm to lift herself over him, letting her stomach rest on his. Except she can't quite reach her phone, his arms are too tight around her.

She presses down deeper into the mattress, finding her hands slides beneath him, effectively trapping her again. She uses his shoulder instead, better leverage.

If she doesn't answer it it's going to wake him, go to voicemail and then she'll get an earful from… someone. Mainly she'll just berate herself.

She's used to this, the quick wake-up. Sure it's not easy, but she can think straight enough, it's just her body that hasn't caught up.

That's why her fingers slip in the thick material of his sweats, rolling her wrist off his shoulder and between his body and the pillow. She doesn't take pause as she falls. She's got to answer the phone.

"Beckett," she manages, curling into his chest, turning away from him so her voice doesn't wash over him, projecting it off in the other direction. She needs something to write with she realises, and shoves off him a little, rolling away. "Let me just get-"

"Detective Beckett?" The voice is timid, young, unsuspecting and shocked. Oh no. This is not her phone and this is not the conversation she'd been expecting. This is not the conversation she should be starting, this is a conversation they need to have. Then when she's ready Alexis can voice her own opinion. Kate's not stupid, she knows the girl has some reservations about her dad working with them, feigning research in the pursuit of actual killers. When she came back she'd been greeted curtly by the girl, she didn't blame her. She would have done the same if that happened to her dad, still would. But she can't have to conversation with her. She needs to take Alexis for dinner or coffee and apologise to her, just like she'll need to apologise to him, for _this_ for the mess she made. "My dad's with you?"

She feels Castle shift behind her, touching her stomach again, toying with the edge of her pants. She knows he's listening, probably trying to work out where their scene is. How she wishes it were a scene. But a simple conversation with the girl, she can do. She can fumble her way through it and manage to not make this worse.

Okay this she can do. The girl just wants to talk to him before school or work or friends or… Wait, where is she going at half past six in the morning. Maybe she's just trying to track him down.

"Yeah I know," she offers, deliberately vague.

"When he wasn't in bed I thought you'd had an early call. But… when you guys have to go to a scene there's a note on the…" Kate listens, staying silent as Alexis realises something has happened, something she hasn't been told about. She's about to open her mouth to explain, to offer to hand over the phone, but the girl continues. "What happened? Is he okay? Are you okay?"

Kate swallows as Alexis asks, realising suddenly she is a blip on the girl's radar. When had that happened?

She turns to face Castle, just to check. She won't lie. Plus she hasn't even so much as met his gaze since waking. But when she turns her head and gives him a quick once over, a tight smile before turning away.

"Yeah. He's here, he's fine." She tells the girl.

"Are you sure? Because he doesn't normally… You're not telling me the truth, are you? Something happened with a case and you guys have-" Kate wants to laugh, curl into Castle's chest and repeat everything his daughter is saying. But she settles instead for speaking, reassuring, offering about the only thing she can.

"Do you want me to wake him?" She should have said he was awake, now she'll think she has to wake him. But she has to make it seem like they're not wrapped together in her bed a tangle of sheets and wandering hands.

She bats away the poke she just earned. He is most certainly listening, aware she's lying. She's actually surprised he hasn't tugged his phone back. He's probably amused, watching her with Alexis. The night after the bank robbery, he'd beamed at her while she held a conversation with his daughter. He'd been stacking dishes while his mother cleared the table. She'd flicked her eyes at him as Alexis ended her story, teasing continuing from their dinner conversation, and caught him watching.

"No, of course not. Don't wake him, Kate just… " Kate listens as Alexis exhales harshly, she needs something and is not afraid to ask. She stays silent, encouraging speech. "You're not at the precinct are you? You guys didn't have some all-night case. You closed it yesterday, he told me. He… Kate, what happened?"

But Castle touches her elbow and she recoils and slaps his hand, a reflex. She winces though, as soon as she does it, and she's about to turn around and speak to him, apologise but then he slides his fingers over the exposed skin at her back, soft and gentle.

She touches her hand to her cheek, leaning back into his body more, letting him support her weight with his legs. "It's fine. I swear." Her assurances are soft, feeble at best and she suspects the girl will see straight through them, if she even heard them.

"You do know he'll tell me anyway, right?" The girl sounds proud of it. And she should be. The relationship they share is remarkable, Kate envies it. She's closer to her dad now, getting closer all the time actually, but they don't have this unwavering faith in one another. They have each sunk into deep holes, lost trust and rebuilt it, only to have it torn down again by reopening old wounds and reopening bottles. But things are getting better. This time when she sank, he didn't follow. He didn't hit the bottle, he made her healthy, strong so this time she could come back stronger. That or he helped her hide away from it all, repair herself.

She hadn't thought of that, not in the beginning.

She realises she's left them both hanging. Castle trails his finger idly up to her ribs and she can't help but hope he will apply pressure, it's always tightest in the morning. She hears Alexis exhale and forces herself to focus. "Oh… Okay," she offers stupidly, removing her hand, no longer whispering.

She pushes his hand down. The last thing she needs to do is groan into the phone at his daughter. While the contact would be quite platonic, intimate but innocent, it would not sound so, his hands on her ribs pushing, poking, prodding would scar the girl. She needs to find out from their mouths, from words not from broken gasps or painful hisses that could be easily misconstrued as something a daughter should never hear. Kate shudders at the thought, notices the way Castle is wrapping himself around her, so attuned it's almost crazy.

"Kate?" the girl asks, checking she's still there. "Are you going to tell me?" Even she can hear the smirk on the girl's face.

"I can do that." She can. She catches the tip of his finger with hers, pushing away a small attempt at contact. He's persistent for someone who has just woken. Though, he's always been persistent.

She can't do that. His mouth is at her back, crossing her skin quickly, insistent. He's certainly worked out it's not a case, but he hasn't worked out it's his own daughter.

"Are you sure? You seem distracted." The girl is amused. "You can wake my dad you know, he won't mind." Kate pauses, as if considering, waiting. "Plus I know he's not really-"

She knows he's not asleep. She's a detective; she's supposed to be able to hold a bluff much better than this. "No, he went back to sleep." That is believable.

He most certainly didn't go back to sleep, teeth on the skin at her hip certainly proves he's awake and listening. And that he didn't believe her. But even if he weren't the subject of the lie, he'd know. He always knows.

She has to stop him because Alexis is drawing in breath about to speak. It's bad enough trying to hold a conversation with his daughter with his mouth open on her skin, but the teeth? That's too much.

She finds his ear, that's enough it stops him. Though he doesn't just stay still, does the man ever sit still?

She feels the dips in the mattress, lets her body dip with it, lets him manoeuvre himself further around her body, lets him slide his arm across her stomach and push her against his legs. Okay talking just got harder, he's watching her, intently, scanning her face and studying. And she can't get away.

"Oh," the voice on the phone brings her back. "Then you need to tell me what happened. You've got no choice. No more dodging." Alexis is trying for stern, almost succeeding.

But then Castle's mouth is open, his eyes at her hand, her ear, his phone.

He rolls onto his back so quickly she falls with him, digs her elbow into his thigh to save herself.

"Okay Alexis, I can do that." She can. She really can. But when she's about to start, about to continue his hands are under her armpits, he's attempting to haul her up beside him.

She waves Castle off and crawls over his body herself, moves to sit with her back against the headboard. He can join her, her legs over his lap won't stop him.

"I don't have all day. You're kinda leaving me hanging here," Alexis teases, but there is a hint of demand there. She really wants Kate to continue.

"I came home last night and my apartment was open Alexis."

"You were robbed?" Alexis is shocked.

"No," she reassures, before continuing. "It was just open. I called your dad so he could get help if I needed it."

"And he turned up."

"Yeah," Kate smiles at the man in question, at his wriggling, so he can slide him body up next to hers. "He was almost here by the time I came back on the line to tell him it was fine and he should go back to bed." He lifts her ankles so he can drag his legs out from under hers, so she doesn't jostle the ankle that's still swollen and a deep shade of purple.

"You should have know-"

"Yeah… I should have," she admits as he slides his arms around her, tugging her down the bed.

"You should have," he mutters as he kisses her cheek.

"But then when he got here, I noticed the limp."

Alexis chuckles, actually chuckles. "What did he do?"

"He didn't wait for the elevator."

"Too slow," he mutters as she turns to face him, his fingers threading through her hair.

"Impatient," Alexis scoffs. "But then what happened? Are you guys at the hospital? It's very… quite."

Now it's Kate's turn to laugh softly. "He insisted," she emphasises the word, "he was fine. So I wrapped it and got him some vegetables."

"Peas and corn," he says, smirking, flicking a finger to the bags she tossed across the floor, towards the door after he'd fallen asleep. He would have a burn on his skin from the cold.

"He's awake," Alexis realises.

"Hmm," she offers. "Want to talk to him?"

Castle raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah put him on, he's got some explaining to do. You do too. I'll see you later, Kate."

She takes that as her queue to hand him the phone. Except he doesn't take it, just leaves the phone in the air, between them. He just slides his hands around her neck and pulls her mouth to his.

It's slow, torturously so as he slides his mouth over hers, touching his tongue to her bottom lip, begging for entry. She opens her mouth, she shouldn't – his daughter is on the phone, but he needs this. He needs to be reassured that she's not backing out.

She's not.

But she is pulling away, a hand to his chest.

"Good morning," he mutters to her.

She flicks her eyes to the phone then back to his. "Morning," she offers quietly as he lifts it to his ear and wraps his other arm tightly around her.

"Hey pumpkin," he greets his daughter and smiles as she talks.

Kate can hear that hum, the muffled words his daughter is saying to him.

"Yeah, we are." Her partner smirks at her and she watches the smile dance across his eyes.

She kisses the corner of his mouth softly while the muffled words continue.

"Hmm," he hums the response and kisses her quickly. "Yeah, we'll be home later."

She arches a brow at him.

"But," he amends, "we need to talk first."

She watches the rise and fall of his larynx.

She closes her eyes and sets her mouth against it, the hard cartilage of his Adam's apple rising and falling as he swallows again.

"Love you too, Pumpkin."


	13. Chapter 13

_Firstly, I want to thank you all for reading, reviewing and altering. The response to this has been amazing; you're all awesome._

_However, this site has been cruel with regards to alerts, including the notification for the last chapter. Also if I missed a review, I'm sorry – but know I appreciate each one._

_**If haven't read the other half of the phone conversation you need to go back to the last chapter. Thank you all for reading and I shall see you at the bottom : )**_

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><p>He tells Alexis he loves her and hangs up the phone, blindly dropping the device onto the mattress behind him while pressing his mouth to his partner's hair, sliding his newly free hand up her back, sliding along her spine.<p>

"Decided you wanted to speak to Alexis, hey?" he jokes as she opens her mouth against his skin. He's ignoring the conversation he just mentioned to his daughter. The conversation his daughter was sympathetic over, the conversation she said was a long time coming. But she understands and knows Kate will too. She just might need some time. How he'd managed to raise this young woman he had no idea, but she is remarkable.

He feels her smile. The joy. He has to wonder, can she feel his too? She knows he's joking, but he has to wonder. Would she have picked up his phone if she'd realised it was his?

"Hmm." He can feel the vibrations of her voice on his throat, rolling off his lips. "And you decided to distract me."

"I thought it was Lanie," he admits.

She scoffs and moves up so she's kissing the underside of his chin. The stubble there probably isn't so scratchy any more. "You seriously thought it was Lanie? You've clearly never had a conversation with her at six in the morning."

He chuckles and lowers his head as she lifts her face to move over his chin. He presses his mouth to hers again.

He's not sure how long he slides his tongue over hers but then she slides her fingers across the skin of his stomach, stealing a touch, daring to explore. She slides her thumb over the curve of his hip, tracing the crest and sucking his lip into her mouth.

Then she grips the bone, grip hard, forceful. But she's not hurting him, she's just being insistent. She's pushing him, trying to get him to roll over so she can roll on top of him. Except he won't comply with her early morning demands.

He's got his own.

He doesn't break his contact with her mouth, just clamps her top lip between his own and, before she can react, he rolls her backwards and brings himself up over her, carefully balancing on his knees, avoiding the discomfort as his ankle slides past the sheets.

"Castle, your ankle…" She speaks around his mouth, pausing each time her lips come together, just for half a second to keep the pressure, kissing him with her words. He's not sure he's ever seen her do something so incredibly seductive, so intimate but so unintentional. But then her hands slide up his back, across the skin and he loses focus. Her hands are cool on the warm skin of his back, beneath his sweats.

Reluctantly he drops her lip. "Fine. Last thing I'm thinking about."

"Oh, is it?" Her hands stop wandering, stop climbing. They just stop.

He presses his mouth to hers, quickly, just once, as he pulls back to study her face.

"What're you thinking?" she asks softly, a finger twitching against his skin, maybe her thumb, but it's thin so it must be the edge.

He brings his attention to her eyes, watches her lick her bottom lip and drag her teeth across it.

He can't do it. He can't say it while he's in her bed. Not while she's lying beneath him, trapped by elbows and arms and legs and knees.

He watches as she blinks, takes a second to keep her eyes closed. She's closing her eyes against it too, needing a second.

He lowers his mouth to the bridge of her nose, kisses there once then follows the line of her eyebrow, the arch of her eye socket, follows until he's kissing her temple, soft and gentle. He feels her exhale beneath him and lowers himself onto her, dropping his weight a little more, onto her. She slides her hands over his back, trailing fingernails, light scratches. It swells within him, the thought of her scratching her nails over his skin because it's too much, because she can't have him close enough, because she can't bring him near enough.

"You. I'm here with you. In your bed," he mutters it against her skin, between kisses, between each new location.

"You are." He can hear her smile.

"But…"

"There is always a but," she offers.

"There is. But can I have five minutes to just-"

"Don't stop," she breathes and turns her face to kiss him, slides her hands down his back, over his arse, stopping for a second to grip his thighs and drag them down, urging him to put more weight on her.

He obeys, more than happy to, keeps himself supported with his elbows, letting his body align with hers from their stomachs down.

But then her hands are gone, no longer on his legs, his arse or his back. But her mouth is still there on his mouth. So he touches his fingers to her neck, sliding into her hair, supporting her head. Then she lifts head and her fingers are in his hair a second later before she sets her head back against his hands, more completely, his palms cradling the base of her skull.

He raises up to kiss her properly, slide his tongue over the roof of her mouth, press his hips into hers. If she wants him here, she's got to know what it's going to do to him.

But he can't.

It's interrupted.

The rise of his body is met by an obstacle, a barrier.

He flicks his eyes up and laughs, loud and open.

"We have a bubble," she explains.

"You made a bubble." He is amazed and he wants to kiss her, ravish her, slow and torturously, not bothering to get out of bed until they desperately need the food.

"We need some… time." She bites her lip, nervous. Indeed they need some time.

"I need some time with you. And if you're going to keep chewing that lip it's going to be more than five minutes," he mutters slowly, not breaking eye contact, know his words could scare her off. But it's not like she has the ability to run, right?

He watches as she drops the pink flesh and raises an eyebrow, a question and an answer all at once.

He smirks at her as he sucks her lip into his mouth, soothing the spot she's been worrying with her teeth, watching her as she watches him. He feels her touch her tongue to the edge of his lip, like she's waiting for him to do something, make a move and she's planning to respond and take control.

He doesn't give her the option. Just nips at the soft skin himself, worries it gently as he forces his knees between her legs, needing to be closer.

She closes her eyes, assaulted by it all, he can tell. He feels her swallow. He feels it ripple through her. The way her lip tugs against his teeth as her jaw clenches with it. It makes him groan and suck it further into his mouth, forgetting the urge to bite, soothing the skin.

She hums, somewhere in her throat. It's raw and open, honest and he drops the lip as abruptly as he stole it. The feel of her exhaling against his mouth, wet from her mouth, makes him press his mouth to the swollen lip again.

"You do know I have to go to work, right?"

He chuckles.

"What?" she asks as she seals her mouth to his.

"I'm," he slides his tongue over hers, then withdraws, "more than," he does it again, "aware that you don't _have_," again, "to unless you have a case." Again.

Now she's chuckling, into his mouth, around his tongue, as she wraps her legs around his, crossing them around his thighs, butt of her ankle digging into the muscle, holding him steadfast.

"I also," again, "know that you spend too," again, "much time there, especially," again, "when you don't have to."

"It's," now she's doing it, "my job, Castle." Again.

"Hmm," again, "you could play hooky," again, "stay here with me," again, "and-"

Again. "Do what?" Again.

"This," again, "and talk." Again.

"We do need to talk." Not again. Damn. But she's right.

He rests his forehead against her eyebrow. "When?" he asks softly.

"I need coffee," she decides, announcing it as if it's an answer.

"But that means we leave the bubble," he sighs, drops his lips to her cheek, pink and flushed. Gorgeous.

"Or…" she smirks as he pulls back to meet her eyes. "I come back with it. We can come back to the bubble for a while, have coffee and you need some more ice," she screws her face up as she remembers his ankle. "I'd be back before you knew it." She smirks and kisses him, face still a little twisted, this time at the thought of leaving.

"Mm, are you always like this in the morning? I still feel half asleep." He's amazed at her as he presses his mouth to hers again.

"What?" she asks. He watches the realisation hit her. He's echoing her words from the first time they woke up together, handcuffed, before the tiger.

"You heard me, Kate," he breathes the words against her cheek.

"I… Yeah. Can we go back to the bubble?"

He pulls back and finds her biting her lip again, entirely adorable in her embarrassment, her hesitation. He shakes his head, nudging his nose against hers.

"Damn," she breathes, but lifts herself and presses her mouth to his, squeezing her legs around his hips, pulling him down.

"Where do we start?" he asks quietly as he pulls back.

"Coffee."

That he can do, that they can do. "Okay you go get it and I'll hop to the bathroom."

She smirks at him. "There's a toothbrush in the drawer near the spare toothpaste. You should use that while you're in there."

"Oh," he exclaims, mocking and feigning offense. "Are you saying-"

"You need to brush your teeth, your morning breath," she screws up her face, exaggerating her distaste, "is ruining the bubble." She winds her fingers through his hair, drawing him closer, despite her words.

"You didn't seem to mind a second ago." He presses his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue over hers, tasting her mouth while she tastes his, for effect, proving his point.

"I didn't have an alternative before. But now you mentioned the bathroom, you should detour and maybe flatten your hair a little."

Okay now she's just teasing.

"You may have something to do with that one."

That earns him a tight squeeze.

"Yeah, like that," he adds, wincing, trying to prove his point. But she's pressing her mouth to his again.

"Okay," she says, pushing against his chest, "I'm getting coffee. Then we'll talk." She kisses his mouth and, reluctantly, he moves off her, shifts his weight from hers.

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><p>When he hops back into her room he finds her already back in bed, a mug wrapped in her hands, the packs beside her on the mattress, wrapped in paper towel.<p>

He watches her smirk at him around the mug as she brings it to her lips.

"Better?" he asks as he reaches the foot of the bed, deciding crawling over the end is much simpler than walking around it.

She nods and takes another long drag.

He realises she's not speaking. She's been out of bed and the bubble has burst. There is no going back.

Regardless, he settles in next to her, not too close, but shoulders just touching.

"When did you re-wrap my ankle?" he asks, keeping it safe for now, neutral. He has to get her to start talking, stony silence won't work when he tells her he's been investigating her mother's case without her, putting his life in jeopardy in order to save her own.

"You were asleep;" she smirks, "had been for almost an hour." She shrugs. "A plane could have landed in here and you wouldn't have woken."

"You stayed up?" he asks, another barrier, a step he's climbing, safe.

"I… I got caught up in the book then I was thinking. I realised the veggies were still there. Then noticed your ankle had been swelling more, so I loosened it a little." She shrugs and suddenly finds her coffee interesting.

"Thanks," he says, genuine and waits for her to look up at him, steal a quick glance.

It takes a few seconds, but she does it, lifts her eyes to his. She must see something there because she maintains the eye-contact. "Anytime," she offers quietly.

He shakes his head. "Next time, take it off and sleep, Kate. Promise me?"

She watches him as she lifts the mug, drinking deeply, stalling.

He fills the silence she can't, takes a chance. "Or wake me."

He watches her try to gulp it down, but it backfires, goes down her trachea instead of her oesophagus. She pushes the mug into his hands and clutches at her chest. The hot liquid no doubt burning, fighting to come back up and beat it's way past the epiglottis – the stubborn flap meant to keep it out, not lock it in. He twists and sets the mug on the bedside, wanting to smirk at the phone still sitting there, her white phone a stark contrast to his black one. She must have been in a haze when she answered.

"Castle," she gasps and has a hand on his forearm, grip tight.

Right, she's choking.

He rubs a hand over hers as he turns back.

He slides his other hand over her ribs, feeling them have as they convulse, urging the liquid to dislodge and take its rightful path.

"You good?" he asks as she finishes a fit, taking in a gulp of air.

She nods. "Think so," she mutters and settles against his chest. He notices that she presses her cheek down, showing him to the top of her head.

He understands, it's easier that way.

"But I will," she promises.

He doesn't know what she's promising but he'll take it. But he needs something else, he needs another promise.

"Promise me that…" He swallows, starts again. "Can you promise me you won't… will you let me talk?"

"What? I thought…"

"I mean in a minute. I've got to… say something. And you're going to want to yell and scream and kick me out of your bed and your apartment, maybe even out of your life."

She tenses in his arms, growing stiffer and stiffer with each word he speaks. But she's wrapping her arms tighter and tighter around his chest, like she is refusing to leave, refusing to budge. He hopes she stays that way.

"Tell me," she says. He can hear the shake, the hesitation.

"I need you to-"

She's shaking her head. "I can't. You can't expect me to-"

"I need you to." He repeats, pleading, begging her to understand.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Tell me and I promise to let you finish before I yell and scream and kick you out." She's teasing, but she's not smiling. She's remaining carefully neutral.

"Can I ask one more thing?" he asks quietly.

She huffs out a breath, a sigh.

"This one is easier," he offers. It's true. This one she shouldn't hesitate over. If she hesitates with this then there is no point at all to being in her bed.

"Okay, ask." She braces herself, he feels it, feels her squeeze his middle, tight, seeking.

"Kiss me?"

She laughs, buries her face in his stomach, his chest.

She obliges and he takes the time to slide his tongue over hers, slow and caressing, trying to tell her he's sorry and he loves her all at once. It's too much for one kiss, he needs more. But he doesn't have more. He has to tell her, right now.

"Okay, speak before I kick you out for too many questions." She's attempting humour, he appreciates it. But the dull laugh she gives is emptier than the one she gave him seconds ago. He knows, just knows in his gut, that she may not laugh with him for a fair while after he does this – after he tells her he's been working her mother's case without her, risking his life to save her own, to avenge her mother on her behalf and slay the dragon all on his own.

She's going to do more than yell, she'll probably hit him.


	14. Chapter 14

_I want to thank my people before we continue, kimmiesjoy and thesteph47 - You both know what you did and why it means so much. After this you will understand my messed up thoughts._

__Also: Please check out my collaboration, **Midnight Queen**, written with kimmiesjoy and is on her profile : )__

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><p>She's going to vomit, actually going to vomit. He needs to speak. He needs to say it.<p>

There is only one thing this can possibly be about: her mother's murder.

She squeezes his chest once, his ribs springing back, recoiling as he exhales with it.

He kisses her hair and she's about to tell him to speak again, beg and plead.

But then he does.

He says it all.

Her jaw is so tight that her teeth hurt.

She's certain she hasn't blinked for a few minutes.

And she knows, she knows that she stopped breathing almost as soon as he started; only breathing when he jostled her or her lungs burned and pleaded.

But she only obliged them so he'd continue, he'd slow down until he felt it, heard it, her breathing.

With all the things he is saying, he could keep tracking the her breathing.

"Kate…" He finally speaks against.

She supposes he's waiting for her to say something, to yell, to scream, to kick him out on his arse, crippled and all.

But she can't.

It's shock.

It's blind and furious.

And she doesn't know how to-

"Breathe…" he prompts quietly.

He received a call from an anonymous man telling her to back off.

He investigated after he told her to stop.

He investigated after he told her to live and not let it destroy her.

He didn't tell her when it came up again.

He didn't tell her he was risking his life to solve her mother's case.

He didn't tell her…

She obeys, finally registering he's spoken.

It's ragged and short, but its oxygen and her lungs desperately crave it.

They need it.

Then his hand touches her hair, moving it so she can't hide behind it anymore.

She needs that too.

She swallows.

He wants her to look at him.

She wants to look at him.

She wants to say something.

But she can't.

It's shock.

It's debilitating and aching.

And she doesn't know how to-

How do you speak to a man who has been trying for months to close your mother's case, to find some irrefutable evidence that will lock this person up and bring down his empire?

When he brushes most of the hair behind her ear, he comes back for a stubborn strand, so typical.

So persistent, so attentive, so attuned.

She turns her face into his hand before he can catch it in his fingertips. All she has to do is exhale against his skin and he slides his fingers over her cheeks, pulling the back of her head to his chest, cradling her face in his hand.

"I'm sorry," he mutters and she feels him exhale against her scalp, hot and clammy.

She shakes her head, nose brushing against his palm.

He shouldn't be sorry.

She opens her mouth to speak but it fails her. Her throat is too tight.

It's not okay, it's not.

He can't apologise for this.

He can't feel guilty.

This time, this hurt is excusable.

He had to keep her alive.

She forces herself to swallow, let the saliva line her throat.

"Don't be," she manages. Her own voice sounds foreign. It cracked, wavered. He'll think the wrong thing.

Then he's hauling her up, too easily, too practised for so soon.

But, for now, that's what she needs.

Him, self-assured and easy, she needs him to stay like this.

Minus the apologies.

"Kate," he breathes her name, touches her face and forces her to meet his eyes, even as he hauled her she didn't look at him.

She can't trust herself not to cry.

"Please," she begs, soft and breaking.

She watches him swallow and nod. All he does is pull her against him, sitting up with her against his chest. How she wound up between his legs, basically in his lap, is beyond her comprehension. In this moment, it doesn't matter.

"I need you to say something," he mutters, mouth at her ear.

She rests her head against his, her temple meeting his nose, hard, awkward.

It shouldn't be awkward.

But it is.

For now, it's awkward.

"Can't," she manages, realising he asked her to speak and she met him with a stony silence.

"You have to," he says again, staying where she set herself against him.

"I want to…" she starts.

"Take as much time as you want, I'll be here."

She swallows and blindly raises a hand, finding his neck. That ease, the relief, makes her speak. He's too understanding. He's been patient long enough.

"You said they were going to…" she swallows, "kill me if I kept digging."

He nods against her head, nose brushing her chest, nuzzling.

He knows what's coming, just like she knew as soon as he opened his mouth.

"But you went without me." She's getting angry now. "You did it yourself. You're not a cop." She swallows, her tongue thick, too heavy. "You could be killed before you could even realise-"

"I was careful." The promise is quiet, certain, desperate.

"No," she says, feels another exhale against her cheek. "Careful doesn't have you doing this behind my back."

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Stop," she bites, deathly soft.

She knows that's worse than yelling, feels him tense beside him.

She's come far enough, they've come far enough, that yelling at him doesn't make her feel better, being curled up against him does though.

But it's not enough.

It doesn't make the sense of betrayal, a lie, disappear.

"Hey," he says softly, turning her body, sliding his hands across her shoulder blades, wrapping until he's almost touching his own shoulders, holding her so tight as if he knows.

He probably knows.

He always knows.

She grips, tight, so thankful he leant off the headboard.

She opens her mouth to thank him, finds she can't find the words.

How do you thank a man who has hurt you but is the only one who can help make it better?

She wants to correct herself.

She doesn't need him to repair herself.

She doesn't.

But she does.

She doesn't need to be sitting between his legs, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, his body holding solid, supporting her, nurturing, taking the time to heal wounds he has made.

She doesn't need him.

She could do this herself.

But she doesn't want to.

At least not yet.

She hears the noise that escapes her mouth before she realises she released it.

She made the noise.

She made the sound.

The confession.

What she's owed him all this time.

A sob, gut wrenching and broken.

She's broken.

But she's in his arms, against his chest.

She owes him.

He's holding the other sobs in.

But she owes him the chance.

When he starts muttering against her cheek, soft and incoherent, she slides her nose against his cheek, searching for his mouth.

Desperate.

She's desperate.

"Kate," he murmurs, through the haze.

She finds that she shudders, chest quivering, shaking against his arms – but his grip tightens, sure, here, proving himself.

She presses her mouth to his chin, realises she has to pull her bottom lip from her mouth where she'd curled it up, stowed it for safekeeping, guarding a part of herself.

Not from him, just from the world.

But when her mouth finds the stubble, open and raw, the tip of her tongue darting out to taste, feel the rough surface, the abrupt scratch, he hums.

Disapproval.

He's saying no.

She pulls back from him, leans as far back in his embrace as she can, but he doesn't let her go, doesn't free her.

"Not like this," he mumbles, studying her face, eyes, mouth, and the line of her throat.

"I…" She huffs, needing to pull herself together. "I wasn't…"

He nods. "I know," he mutters before touching his lips to hers, oozing tenderness.

She exhales against his mouth as he pulls, back, resting the tip of his nose to hers.

"You know?" she asks quietly.

"I know," he assures. "I understand. We need to do this… right." She winces at his own words and normally she'd laugh or tease or cringe, but today?

She understands.

She breathes, startles as she hiccups, stifled by the tears she can't even focus on.

They don't matter.

She realises, his hands are sliding along her arms, slowly descending, fingers trailing.

He's pleading.

She closes her hands as he reaches her wrists, closes her eyes.

"I… need something," she requests softly.

He huffs out a breath. "Anything."

"I need you to give me some time," she mumbles it, knows he hasn't heard, because he's raising her hands up, entwining their fingers, reaching for her face.

"What do you need, Kate?" he asks, brushing a knuckle, their knuckles, over the line of her jaw.

She turns and kisses his fingers, hers as well, together, simple and easy.

But this isn't easy.

She closes her eyes when he settles their hands against her cheek, she rests the weight of her head against it, his thumb grazing her skin.

"Time," she repeats softly.

She waits for a few seconds after she speaks before she opens her eyes.

"I need time," she says it again, more certain. It's the truth.

"I said and you…"

She chuckles at him, dark and hazy. Typical Castle.

"I'm not running, not…" She stops. She won't say not yet. Because she said she wouldn't. But she needs time to-

"You need to think."

"I need to understand," she agrees. "And I've got… I have to be honest with you and we have to-"

"I know where I stand and if where we are right now," he flicks his eyes to their bodies, a tangled mess, then to the sheets around them, equally as tangled, "is any indication then I think we're on the same page." He watches her, so intent, so curious, so cautious. "May-"

"Yes." She swallows a gasp of air immediately after she says it, clamps her mouth shut.

The admission doesn't lift a weight from her.

It adds to it.

But she can't do that now.

Now isn't the time to tell him she knows.

She can't tell him she heard him tell her he loves her.

That wouldn't be fair.

Keeping it secret isn't fair either.

But she needs a clear head. It's decided as she focuses on his face, his mouth, the curve of his chin.

She watches the smile slide across his face, following the curve of his chin. She shakes her hand free from his, drags her other arm up to his face too.

When she presses her mouth to his, trying to convey so much need and want and longing, he slides his fingers over her cheek too.

"You need time," he says softly as she withdraws, touching the stubble with her fingers.

"Yeah." She puffs her cheeks out as she says it.

He presses against the skin, deflating it. And despite herself-

She laughs at him.

With him.

"You're still you," she notes quietly.

"Hmm," he hums, kissing her softly.

"You're still in my bed," she adds before she kisses him.

"You're still in your bed." He smiles around his words.

But she shakes her head, not for much longer. "I need time."

"Oh, that…"

Now she smiles and kisses the stubble under her thumb, moving the appendage away.

"But," he narrows his eyes at her, "you're not mad." He says it so slowly, so cautiously she wants to shove him.

She scoffs and wipes her face with both hands, erasing the worn tear tracks. But he interrupts, with his fingers taking over, kissing her mouth quickly to distract.

It works.

She sets her hands on his like before, entwining fingers and giving him half a smile. "Nope."

He shakes his head, doesn't smile, still apprehensive. "You need to process it don't you."

"I need to process it," she agrees.

"So," he kisses her softly, "I'll go-"

"No." Now it's her turn to shake her head.

"No?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well…" she huffs out a breath, unable to speak again.

Damn.

"I don't know unless you tell me."

Damn.

She huffs again. "Stay."

"Okay? But I need more words from you because you need some time and I can't be here and not be," he leans forwards, crowding, "here." He drops his mouth to hers.

Damn.

Now he's _here_ he won't be leaving.

Not so much a damn.

"Hmm," she offers, as if considering.

He rolls her eyes. "Now you're just being mean."

"You can stay here and I'll take a bath." She watches him raise an eyebrow, she ignores it. "After a while head into the kitchen, and make me more coffee and find us some food," she watches him swallow, "then I'll go to work."

"After you drop me home," he adds, like she could forget.

She nods, agreeing to the unnecessary addition.

"Then I want you to come to the loft for dinner." Another addition, another step forwards.

It'd be a lie if admits she hadn't been expecting it, kind of hoping for it, tempted to just invite herself.

She has things she needs to say.

She opens her mouth, an okay dangling on her tongue.

"Time." He nods. "I get it. But I want you to talk me through it all."

"Huh?" She doesn't understand.

"What you're thinking. I want to know how you're… managing this."

She swallows.

Okay, she decides, she has to be honest.

Then stops.

He may be in her head, able to tell everything she thinks and feels, write novels about it.

But he cannot read her exact thoughts. "Okay." Vocalising it makes it real.

He's wary, cautious and as soon as he opens his mouth she can see it coming, so she beats him.

"Right now, I am wishing you'd told me. You could have died."

"Stop dwelling on that. Later, if you can, I'll show you what I've done, not just tell you. Maybe if you see it you'll see I haven't really," he huffs, "gotten anywhere."

"No more," she announces, on a whim.

"What?" His jaw drops.

"Stop," she says, trying a different tact.

"You want me to stop investigating?"

"What?" she asks.

Oh.

Yes.

But no.

She huffs as he furrows his brow.

He's confused.

So is she.

Okay, she needs to explain it to him. He can't read her mind, as much as he'd like to, he can't.

"Yes, I want you to stop. But," she drawls her condition, "right now I want you to stop talking. Later." It seems like a vague promise, but it's not.

He raises an eyebrow, a silent challenge because when he opened his mouth to question she narrowed her eyes and put her hands on his shoulders.

She closes the space between them, leaning so far over him as he watches, studies, that she can push him backwards with a careless shove.

He grunts as he hits the mattress.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "I thought you said-"

"You're really going to question me?"

"No." She watches as he bites his lip, watching her intently, her mouth mainly. So she smirks, steals her own lip.

"Then shut up," she offers it like advice, but it's more a request. He doesn't have to-

He zips his lips and settles his hands on her hips, sliding them over her legs after a second. She sets her mouth on his, sliding her tongue over the edge of his mouth.

She squeaks as he lifts his body and hers. but then she realises, he's not arching his body to press himself to her, while that is an added bonus, it's got more to do with the sheet twisted beneath him.

"Hmm," she hums her approval as she holds her feet out of the way, slides her hands under the slack edge of his sweatshirt, clinging to his body. He lowers himself to the mattress again and slides the sheet past her feet, touching as he goes.

She curls them away and attaches her mouth to his neck.

She's not hiding, not from his hands on her feet.

When he slides his legs up, moving around the sheet, he nudges her arse with his knees, urging her to move up, away.

She doesn't understand.

She pulls back and studies his face.

But when he cranes his neck and catches her mouth, she gets it and she slides a little higher up his body, settling against his stomach, doubling over a little, her hands on his ribs.

When he sucks on her lip, again, she slides her hands under the edge of the thick material, no longer content to fist the material in her hands.

The noise that works its way from the back of her throat makes him smirk. Then there is swift movement around her.

"Bubble," he announces and finds herself the one smirking.

"Hmm." She slides her hands over the skin beneath it. The muscles twitch under her hands, goose bumps bubbling across his skin.

He slides his hands up her back, lifting the tank and urging her forwards, fingers toying with her ribs, dancing and sliding, teasing and tormenting.

She doesn't say anything just steals his bottom lip between her teeth and nips.

She slides her hands around, forcing the thick material, up and away.

He matches her, at the same point.

Even in the bubble, he's giving her time, space.

She debates tugging the heavy material over his head, but decides against it. It wouldn't be fair.

He huffs out a breath.

She drops his lip and pulls back a little, studying him.

"What?" he asks, sliding his fingers under the hem of her shirt, deliberately grazing the edges of her breasts.

"I'm not thinking," she says it softly and tries to avoid smiling, but she can't.

He's distracting her and well, practised in the art.

He slides his hands down to cradle her ribs, hands spanning, wrapping around her. "I know. But you should be," he mutters, kissing her quickly. He's not smiling.

She slides her thumbs over his ribs.

She nods, hesitant, but it's an agreement. "I should be." Her admission is soft, but certain.

"Go, before I change my mind."

But he doesn't let her go. He actually brings her closer.

She huffs a breath, a protest. "Okay." She slides her hands from under his sweats and sets them on his face.

"Seriously," he says softly, sliding his hands down her skin as he presses his mouth to hers.

She puts her forehead to his, watching him while he watches her. "I like the bubble," she confesses.

"Me too, but right now?" he says softly as he slides his hands around her hips, grip tight as he lifts her off himself.

She lifts her legs a little, helping. "I know. I need to go." She kisses him once, soft and habitual – like she's going out for milk and will be back soon. In a morbid way, that's kind of true.

She'll be back.

"I'm staying in the bubble," he announces, pushing her away.

She will be back.

She knows he can tell she doesn't want to go and digest everything he's told her. As soon as she's alone, she'll break. They both know it.

And he'll be in the next room.

She wishes she could ask him to leave, be strong enough to push him far enough away that hurting her won't hurt him more than it already has.

She slides away and pulls the sheet over him, watching as he rolls, worming under the pillows, now on his stomach.

Then his hand is on her knee.

She bats it away. "Coffee, Castle," she teases, "don't forget."

"Won't," he mumbles.

"Sure you won't," she says, taunting while she slides back from the bed. She watches his still form, a gentle rise and fall of his chest, just visible beneath the twist of her sheets as she moves around the bed as quietly as she can.

"Enjoy the bubble," she tells him, finally moving into the bathroom.

"You're evil," he groans, the words muffled by the clothes on his body.

She really is.

Because that's easier, for now.

As soon as that door clicks shut she'll stop, come crashing down.

But he's waiting for her to pop back out.

* * *

><p><em>I know this took a little longer than normal and I apologise,<br>but you can probably understand the secrets aren't exactly easy to write._


	15. Chapter 15

He's been staring at the clock for an hour.

Well, not for a whole hour.

He tries to sleep, takes the pills she left on the bedside, with a mouthful of the water they left there last night. The bitter, stagnant taste makes him screw his face up. But he knows it's for the best. He presses the cold packs to his skin too, a welcome distraction while he moves through her sheets and tries him damnedest to listen for her, wait for her to need him to pull her back together.

But she won't.

He knows she won't.

She needs to do this without him.

So he waits.

The hour.

That's enough time, right?

He swallows, knowing it won't be.

But he moves from her bed anyway, untangles himself from the sheets they twisted and the bubble they created. She said to make her coffee and breakfast. So if he can entice her from the tub with that, then that's something, progress.

He's ignoring the images of her in the tub though, the wet and naked part is infinitely appealing, but the thought of her, alone, surrounded by her own thoughts and his betrayal, has him hoping she's okay. He wonders if he should ask her as he passes.

He stalls, manages to make the bed, surprised that his angry ankle will now allow him to hobble around. It's not a smooth gait and is far from graceful, or silent, but it's freedom. The swelling has ebbed and the pain dulled.

He wonders if it was time, the pills he took half an hour ago or the ice. Or just a combination.

He doesn't care. He decides he has to head to the kitchen, creep past the bathroom silent, give her another fifteen minutes before he knocks and-

The door is not closed.

Well, it's not open, but it's not closed.

Ajar would be the only appropriate description. Except it's more than that.

He hears the slosh as she shifts, soft but distinct. So she's definitely still in the tub.

"Castle?" she asks.

"Yeah? He steps forward a little, moving so his body is in the gap, his temple against the doorjamb, eyes watching the line of the wall, not her in the bath.

"Did you bring coffee?"

He chuckles.

"You have to get out for that."

She scoffs. "I won't be. Will you bring me a cup?"

"Okay." He swallows. He can do that.

"Hey, Castle?" she calls as he steps away, asking for his attention, not commanding it.

"Yeah?" he asks, leaning into the room a little, acknowledging he heard her and is listening.

She doesn't say anything.

He presses his forehead harder to the doorframe and swallows and waits for her. Stubborn and stubborn, battling it out – each hedging bets on who will break first.

She'll win.

Slowly he draws his head back from the edge of the doorframe, studying the wood intently, notices a chip he wants to ask about.

Really?

Detective Kate Beckett is challenging him to turn and look at her while she's naked in the tub and he wants to ask about the dent in her doorframe, really?

Good Lord.

He follows the line of tiles and spots the foot of the tub, his eyes following the curve of the tub, the ceramic softened by the mound of bubbles at the brim.

He smirks and hears her laugh, so he follows the line, and the sound, to find her already watching him.

He hums approval and leans against the doorframe, folding his arms over his chest and deliberately leaning so his weight is off his foot.

He needs the weight off his foot, more freedom. He could stay here and just stare at her, doing nothing more than meeting her eyes. She's sitting with her body facing the door, either cross-legged or curled up in the narrow width of the tub. Her legs are probably curled under her. He can only see the tops of her shoulders, but he knows, he can tell, that her arms are at her knees or wrapped around her legs.

He can't decide exactly how she's sitting.

Normally, he'd set the image in his mind and focus on it, draw all the details with thevast array of words at his disposal. But he doesn't. Not this time.

This time all he can think is he wants to slide in behind her and pull her against his chest. Then beneath his fingers, he'd feel every line of her body, trail his hands over her arms and legs and stomach.

"Toast too? And I have something I need to tell you."

He snaps out of it, the thought of his fingers grazing the skin of her stomach, slimey from the amount of bubblebath she's poured into the tub. He wants to him, but he can't, not after what she just said.

He settles for dropping his arms, uncrossing them from his chest. His body is begging him to move towards her, rest his forearms against the edge of the tub and beg her to speak, coax words from her mouth with his own.

But not yet.

She way she's flicking her eyes from his to the tile at his feet to the bubbles around her to the faucet to her left, it's all a sign. She needs a few more minutes.

"Toast and coffee." He nods, a kind of salute, a kind of acceptance, his understanding. "I'll be back." He turns and leaves before she can see how nervous he is.

She has something to tell him.

She promised she wouldn't run, but she still might want to ask some more questions about her mother's case.

"Bring a pillow." Her voice echoes down the hall.

Now he's worried.

She has a lot to say then.

…

He brings the coffee back first and she takes it straight from his hands, giving him a look when he goes to set it on the counter.

He drops his own to the counter and watches her take a large gulp of the coffee, before she arches a brow, a silent question – are you just going to stand there all day?

He wants to tell her he will, stand there and watch her in the tub. But he doesn't, he steps back through the door.

When he returns with the plate, a few slices covered with the peanut butter he teases her about her lack of food. Wants to tell her he's going to feed her better tomorrow, but the heaviness that seems to have settled over her stops him.

She has to talk.

He has to listen.

He knows it's coming. He can guess what she's going to say.

Her mother's case isn't his business. If it's so dangerous how can he work it? How can he put Alexis through that? How can he put his mother through that? She won't let herself and her mother be the reason Alexis loses her father.

She won't.

But he can't promise that. That's what she'll say. That's what she knows he should realise, he does realise. He just…

Neither can she. She can't promise she won't not come home. She can't guarantee she won't be injured or worse. Even if it is unrelated to her mother's case.

She'd say it is her job and he doesn't have to be there.

But he does. He has to be there now. He has to see it through, all of it.

He rubs a hand down his face.

She hasn't even started speaking yet and he's prepared, he knows what she's going to say and he knows how he has to respond. How to say things to make her think, make her realise. He isn't doing this to hurt her.

He settles himself down on the floor, glad he ignored her suggestion of a pillow, and offers her a piece of toast, finds she's brought herself over to the edge, resting her chin in the crook of her elbow and making a small puddle as the bubbles slide off her arm, dripping to the floor.

"No more bubble," she says quietly, talking around the food she's chewing, hiding behind the mug while she speaks. No more games, no more delays is what she means. Just the truth and a shocking dose of reality.

He shakes his head, in agreement. No more bubble.

He watches her shoulders slump as she watches him chew the toast.

"I can't-" He watches her swallow, close her eyes, begging herself to hold it together. He wants to reassure her, but he won't. She needs to do this on her own. They both know that.

"I understand why you did what you did."

He watches her meet his eyes, careful and calculating. She's already said this part, but it's the lead in – the lead in to more.

"I'm not saying I agree with it or even want you to keep doing it, but I understand. You wanted to protect me. And I'm glad – honestly I am, but it hurts."

"I'm sorry." It's feeble, at best. It's entirely useless, but it's the best he's got.

She glares at him.

He swallows the lump of dry bread, not properly chewing, just to stop himself leaning up on his haunches and meeting her mouth, hauling her from the tub and-

"No apologises," she assures.

He's about to open his mouth to protest, but she continues.

"You've been doing this for nine months without me. I should know how long it's been since," she falters, swallows, forges on, "I was shot."

He lets his head hit the cabinet behind him, watches her face change as he resigns himself to listening, not speaking. They both know she's not finished.

"I can't be mad at you for it. You looked into it because you understand. You get it.

"I do. You need it put to rest. You said so."

"I did." She's nodding, agreeing. "But then Burke took me through-," she stops as he gapes at her. "Don't look at me like you don't know who I'm talking about. You know I've been in therapy."

"I know, I know. But I'm having a hard time focusing here," he gestures to the tub between them. Sure, that's part of it, but it's got more to do with her honesty. She doesn't have to tell him, but she is. He's not going to stop her. "But continue, please."

She rolls her eyes and gives a huff. "He helped me see that I can move on with my life and put this case to rest. She's still gone either way." She stops and averts her eyes, following the line her finger is making on the edge of the tub.

He watches her slide her thumb along the edge of the tub, finally giving in and stilling the hand when it makes its third trip along.

"She's still gone and I'm still here. She'd," she exhales harshly, broken, disrupted, "be so mad at me for pursing this with my own life at risk. Especially when that..." She stops, quickly meets his eyes. He nods his understanding, she doesn't have to say it.

He knows she doesn't believe in a lot of things, but he does know she's always had this indescribable unwavering faith of 'if she were here'. He's seen Kate do it. But he's also seen her forget it, get buried so deep he has basically had to physically pull her out of it, close the files for her and help her put it to bed.

He'd do it again.

"I don't think I'll ever let it … get the way it was. But I do know you can't do the same. You can't do what you're asking me not to do." She winds her fingers through his, studying his knuckles.

"Kate…" he tries, but she squeezes his fingers.

"No. I'm saying give it some more time, let the… heat fall off it a little more. Then when they least expect it, we'll be there. Okay? But I need to stop, I can't…"

"Okay," he agrees.

She huffs. "Let me finish? I know you understand, but… I need to say it." The eyes that meet his are giving a soft plea, begging.

He's taken aback. She wants to stop the subtext, the hidden meanings that have become so blaringly obvious it's almost shameful. She wants to use words.

"I can't move forward with my life if we keep going back to the case. And I want to move forward."

"Forward," he agrees. Keeping that promise will be simple, turning off the murder board is simple.

"I'm not going to say I won't," she exhales around the sob threatening to escape, "ever think about it."

"Of course you will," he interrupts, understanding she needs it.

"But you can't let it get me killed. That would leave a hole in my dad so big…" She doesn't finish the sentence, they both know. "And you can't let it get you killed. That would destroy Alexis…" She tugs his hand forwards, pressing her mouth to it.

"I won't let that happen," he assures her. He won't let himself be a cause of hurt for his own daughter, he won't dig so deep that he leaves Alexis with scars as deep as those which mare the woman before him.

They're silent for a long time and she smirks as he raises another piece of toast, taking it with a roll of her eyes.

"What's the time?" she asks.

"Doesn't matter. You… better?" he asks. He keeps expecting her to yell but she's not. It's a sign of her growth, he's assuming.

"No," she says slowly. "I'm not. Because that's not all I have to tell you."

He swallows. "So tell me, you know you can tell me any-"

"I did the same thing you did, but worse."

He leans forward, resting his shoulder against the edge of the tub. "What?"

"I lied to you. Well, no I didn't lie to you. I lied by omission. I didn't tell you something… and it's important."

"Kate-" He's begging her to get to the point.

"I looked into what Sofia said." He can tell she changed direction half way through the statement, the slight falter, the slight pause.

He opens his mouth but the clench of his chest, too tight means he can't find the words. So he grips her hand tighter.

"I didn't find anything. But… I looked, without you."

"Kate…" He isn't sure what tone his voice holds but there is a pleading he can detect himself. It's mainly because he wants to crush her against his chest and not let her go, soaking wet or not.

"I know, I'm sorry. But I can't-"

Screw, what he's supposed to do.

He has his free arm around her shoulders, behind her neck, before she can even flinch.

He presses his mouth to her ear as she grabs his shoulder to stop herself sliding across the slick porcelain.

"You don't have to apologise either." He means it - she doesn't.

"I feel like I betrayed you." He only just hears her say it, but it's too loud once he does hear it. He most certainly hears it.

He pulls back so he can see her face, watch her study his, gauging his reactions to this development. "You didn't," he promises.

"But-" she starts.

"You didn't," he finishes.

She huffs and squeezes his shoulder again, dropping her head onto her arm, watching him, lip between her teeth.

He squeezes the fingers he's still holding and drops his mouth to her cheek.

"I'm glad you did it without me. I don't think," he stops muttering as she shifts beneath his mouth, "I can."

She sets the tip of her nose against his cheek, mouth hovering over his as she gives half a smile. "I'll help you. When you're ready, we can do some digging," she whispers, conspiring before closing the gap, a promise.

He swallows. "I'm going to hold you to that," he announces softly and slides his tongue along her bottom lip.

"You don't need to hold me to it, I'll remember."

He knows she's not lying. She means it.

They're even, equals. But he knows there's still something she's not telling him.

But that's okay.

In time, she'll be able to say it.

For now, he's happy to let her show him.


	16. Chapter 16

She shivers, quick and sudden.

She feels him tighten his arms, the stubble on his chin brushing roughly against her cheek.

"No more secrets," he promises quietly. "No more trying to do these things alone, we work together or not at all, okay?"

She nods against his chin, touches her mouth to the skin she finds. "Okay."

"Hmm," he hums. "No more talking." He drops his mouth to her neck and she shudders.

It's not that she's realised her state of undress, it's that she's realised she's wrapped in his arms, her hair twisted up on top of her head. She may be stark naked, concealed by bubbles and the porcelain of the tub, but she's exposed to him, his mouth. And that's a very new thing.

She's spent the last hour toying with a washcloth, twisting it in her hands, rolling it, covering it with bubbles then curling the fabric around them, watching the ooze of foam out the sides, the leak from the corners.

She realises he's sliding his fingers over her shoulders, skimming slick skin and exploring.

"You taste like soap," he mutters as he finds the curve of her neck, tongue sliding over the skin.

She can only chuckle and try to draw back from him, meet his gaze, still caught in his embrace.

He steals her mouth as she leans further back into the bubbles, shivering as they touch her back as well, joining his fingers in sliding over her skin.

"Cold?" he asks.

Oh.

She bites her lip.

Maybe it is cold and not just the loss of his body heat, his arms and-

Oh.

He slides his hands over hers, over her forearms, grazing her elbows with his forefinger as he skims the inside of her elbow with his thumbs. She shivers, but he doesn't climb higher, doesn't pull her back against him so she can steal the warmth from his thick sweats.

"Cold," she agrees.

He smirks and gives her a kind-of 'I told you so'. She's trying to form a coherent defence, about to protest and open her mouth and dish back the look, silence him and make him squirm – as always.

But he presses his mouth to hers, insistent and certain as he kisses the corners of her lips, nipping at the gape she's opened, completely reflex.

She lets him trail, just for a second, but she doesn't understand, doesn't know what he's doing. She slips her tongue into his mouth, finds him all too eager to allow it, meeting her tongue with his, guiding her to follow, back into his mouth, flicking the tip urging her to run along the roof of his mouth.

Demanding, silently, with his damn tongue. His eyes are closed, so are hers and their only other contact is their hands on the others arms.

She can't help but chuckle as she slides her tongue along, following orders from a man who has for so long been insistently defying her, putting his own life in jeopardy, and not just to save hers.

"Ready to come back to bed?"

She swallows and presses her mouth to his again, meeting his tongue, twisting and sliding across his own – a far from delicate dance, but it's smooth and fluid, like they've had years of practise.

In a way they have.

With tongue lashings and innuendo laden with so much subtext, so common that she always knows what's about to roll off his tongue before he can manage to say it.

He withdraws, but not before pressing his mouth to her cheek, the side of her nose, the corner of her eyebrow. She's here and she's not going anywhere – she doesn't think he realises that yet.

Or if he does, if he has, he doesn't quite believe it. So she lets him reaffirm it. Pretend like she doesn't know he's trying to convince her.

He raises an eyebrow, an invitation that is all too enticing.

She cocks her head to the side, regarding him, feeling a little too relaxed, too settled here. Not in the cooling tub, but with him, practised and normal – she likes normal.

"You're just going to sit in there all day?" he asks quietly, blue eyes gleaming for half a second with a dance, a challenge of – an acceptance of, if you sit in that tub all day I'm not going to leave your side. Just a hint. But she knows.

She always knows.

She wonders if he's serious, there is a tease – that's certain, but the tease doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hmm, no," she decides, answering him after the pause, long and lingering, studying and memorising.

It is tempting though to just sit in the stagnant water.

It is more than tempting to drop the water level enough so that she can add more hot water, pull his sweats off his body and tug him in with her, get him to nestle there and-

He kisses her again, sliding his fingers lightly over her arms, finding the curve of her shoulders and sinking his fingers deeper into the skin, working his way across the expanse of her back.

He trails his lips from her mouth, along her jaw, stopping to kiss the curve of her chin, slide his tongue across the underside once.

She hums and turns her head, encouraging his mouth to move along, continue.

As if that wasn't enough encouragement her fingers find their way into his hair, curling in the tufts at the base of his neck.

But he's already obeying, sliding his tongue along the angle of her jaw, stealing the edge of the bone hidden beneath her skin, it might be conceal and protected – but he can find it, coax it, work it in his mouth as much as he likes. She shudders, angling his head as he lashes his tongue against the harsh rise of bone, the stubborn change of direction – like he was too focused on the motion of his own tongue, the feel of her skin beneath it, to realise he's slid his mouth almost to her ear.

She shifts her jaw, wiggling it in its stubborn hinge – that damn click when she's too stressed, too tired is there. And she feels him smirk against her skin, laugh softly to himself, as if he's sharing the joke.

"You need to relax, come back to bed," he mutters it as he slides his nose higher, grazing his nose over the shell of her ear, lips touching her earlobe as he mutters the last word, a soft rasp rattling against the membrane in her ear, bouncy off the hard bones, until it's all she can hear, echoing through her mind.

"You're inviting me into my own bed?" She's not exactly shocked, but her voice is breathy, from his tongue and his words – always from his words.

He nips the skin with his lips, slides his tongue over it with hands on her neck, angling her too, while she angles him.

It should be messy, confusing for them both, but they've had so much practise she can read him like a book.

She knows he's going to tug her face across while she leads his downwards – directions succeeding in leading his mouth along the hard line so she can hear him exhale against her ear, lost her hair, then hot against her mouth again, disrupted so startlingly by his tongue, smooth and wet against the skin of her ear.

His mouth is everywhere and she's so lost in each motion, each flick and curl, that she loses track of the muscle itself.

"Certainly am. Problem?"

Oh she has no problem with that. Nonewhatsoever.

However-

"No," she says softly, twisting away from his mouth at her skin so she can press her mouth to his own neck, breath against his ear.

"So come to bed," he whispers, against her ear.

His voice makes her exhale against his skin.

"I've got to work," she mutters, sliding her mouth along his neck, speaking against his skin darting her tongue out much further than necessary, taking her own turn to curl and lash and nip and suck. "As soon as I get out and dressed we have to leave."

He sighs, steals a portion of skin with his lips, grazing it with his teeth, sliding his tongue over the portion, protesting with a muffled. "Nu-huh."

When she sucks he nips and he gasps slightly, dropping the skin. When he nips and she gasps for what must be the fifth or sixth time she realises she has to put a stop to this. "I know it's late now Castle, we're pushing-"

"Don't go to work," he begs.

"I _have_ to."

"You don't _have_ to do anything."

She chuckles. She does. She has to go to work. Starting this with him, yeah they could spend a week in bed, making up for missed opportunities and affirming the shift, as slight as it is. "I need to work and you need to see someone about that ankle."

"What if I need you to come with me?"

"Why?" she challenges, a scoff added for effect, hot against his skin. She knows why. He's about to make an excuse about not being able to drive himself.

"It feels better now." He's lying, shifting gears and steering conversation – realising he won't win this one. He's now trying to convince her to bring him to the precinct with her.

"I'm glad you can hobble around a little better, but it's not better. You know that it's the tablets."

He huffs a breath and returns to their nip, suck and speak routine.

This time it takes twelve, she's counting, wonders if he is too. He always notices things, commits them to memory. She wants him to notice this too.

"Need a towel?" he asks softly, making no move to back away from her, not even lifting his mouth from her skin.

"Well I wasn't planning to drip dry." But now she doesn't want to get out, because getting out means going to work and forcing herself to focus through a day of paperwork and teasing from two savvy detectives who will undoubtedly comment on her unusually late arrival, well for her. She'll probably meet them in the elevator at this rate.

Maybe if she hurries-

"I could help with that, steal the water from your skin, slide-"

Yeah she's not going to be hurrying too much.

She finally shifts from against him, pulling away from his neck and forcing him to do the same. She presses her mouth to his, using her lips to close his mouth, flicking her tongue out to taste as they closed, shocked, still puckered from his words, the ones she's stolen.

He leans back and she follows, sliding her body up along the smooth porcelain – she really should have made the bath hotter, drawn more hot water in so she could stay in here longer – the lack of chill as her chest slides across the edge is startling. It's almost like she knew it wasn't worth the water, that she'd be quicker than in the past. That he would interrupt.

She'd known.

But she'd called him in – called him back really – encouraged him to make himself comfortable while she shrouded herself in bubbles, in the silence of her bathroom. It had seemed like a good idea, she's lucky it worked out that she didn't crack and he didn't either.

That would have gotten… messy. Probably would have flooded her bathroom as she dragged him into the tub with her, an overflow of bubbles and water – the displacement he would surely create in the water would the molecules tumbling across the floor, spreading them thin.

But that would be a mess she would surely clean up.

It would make a valid excuse for being a little later to work: a flooded bathroom. It wouldn't even be a lie.

Just- an extension of the truth.

An exaggeration.

She only realises he's grabbing a towel as he brings it back, half-draping it across his knee, dragging it by the corner across the tile.

She flicks her eyes to it and feels him watching.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable and completely endearing.

"I'll, uh- I'll just wait in your room."

She scoffs, snatches his mouth with hers. Smiles and scoffs again, against his mouth for good measure.

He furrows a brow as he pulls back. He doesn't understand. Or he does, and doesn't want to admit that that is the conclusion he has reached.

And she rolls her eyes in response. Of course he's right. Stay. She wants him to stay.

It's an unspoken conversation. No subtext, no hidden meaning – just no words necessary.

But he doesn't move so she raises a brow at him and lifts her eyes a little after they orbit their socket – a complete revolution, a progression, a lapse of time, a request with some time for him to process, to catch on.

He flicks his eyes around, between them, like he doesn't know where to look. And nothing has changed. He's been sitting there for several minutes, probably fifteen, more if you count before he went for coffee, but just now he's realising she has to get _out_ of the tub, slip from the bubbles and into her clothes, force herself off to work and convince herself, later, that it's okay to have dinner – like he asked.

It's not the company or the thought of time alone, or with his family, that will cause her to hesitate (later). It's the transition to going to his home instead of hers, meeting with him for dinner, discussing her day with a man who has shared it, inserting herself into his life completely, making a life she's been so determinedly keeping herself from – not just him, everyone else too.

But she won't falter – she owes it to him. She'll do this with him.

She's done.

She needs out before she begins to get carried away starts to consider 'always' and 'their home'.

They haven't even slept together, or dated officially, or…

Well now he's all but seen her naked in several circumstances.

But they're all things they've done – come close enough to doing – that she thinks, just thinks, she's done.

She flicks her gaze to his ear, the patch of skin below it still red from her mouth, her teeth and her tongue.

She wants to apologise, almost, but she knows, can feel on her own skin the spot his breath has been, the cool shiver as the air passes over the heated skin, the artery beneath arching so high, pulsating so strongly that he could probably see the twitch of her skin if he focused his attention, his eyes not his mouth, on the spot.

Though, he could probably feel it beneath his mouth.

She could feel his, can still see it actually.

"You need to stand up," she says as he flicks his eyes back to her, resigning himself to the fact he doesn't know how this will work. She understands.

She's not sure how it will work either, hadn't considered it when she all-but told him to stay, asked it of him.

He's trying to be restrained, respectful, but he's been patient so long and he needs to be shown, in small doses, that she is more than appreciative, that she's in this too – it's taken her longer to be open about it, but she's been as dedicated to him for as long as he has her.

She's just too stubborn to show him, was too embarrassed (at first) to let him see that he was on her list (the first) of celebrities who she would have a free pass with. He would love to know that detail. But he fast become more than the writer who shocked her, who she took the time to shock back, make quick calculating blows, deliver words with as much precision and caution, restrain, as she could muster – just for the added effect of slowly whispering in his ear, pulling back and biting her lip.

She's so glad they moved past that.

It's been a long, interwoven, intermingled mesh and mess that she'd begun to think, before her mentor was murdered, before her Captain sacrificed himself, before she found herself in the crosshairs, that just maybe they'd dragged their dance out too long, made too big a mess to clean up.

But then they'd made more mess.

He'd said it, confessed it as she laid their, burning a hole through her chest, words chasing that bullet like they would keep it from tearing her heart in half. Maybe they did, she doesn't know.

She remembers, in that moment, knowing she had to wake up, had to emerge from the darkness that had swallowed her whole, was threatening to swallow her whole again. She had to for him.

He shifts his legs under himself, squatting, poised to stand, but he touches his mouth to hers as he does it, slides his tongue over hers.

She knows she hurt him, but she knows he's put it behind them – but someday, in some way she will make it up to him. And maybe, just maybe, she knows how to do it.

She angles her head to continue the kiss, sliding her tongue against his bottom lip as he slips just out of reach, but then his hand is at her elbow, urging her to stand, with him.

She knows she has to rise with him, she has to stay and she has to fight. She can't bury herself so deep in a hole to lick her own wounds that she can't even spare five minutes to call him to tell him she needs more time.

He needs to know if she's alive or dead.

So she'll make sure he never has to wonder.

She'll show up or call or _something_.

She smirks against his mouth, and grabs his arm, wrapping her fingers around his forearm. He won't let her fall, but she needs him to know she's certain, relying, trusting.

If she shows up, he'll be there to guide her, lead the way and make sure she doesn't break this – he won't let her break either.

"Hmm." He's humming against her mouth before she can take a second to work out how to set her feet flat on the bottom of the tub and slide up, following his lead. She's too lost in her thoughts again.

Then she realises.

He's leading her and she's not paying enough attention to him, breaking a silent promise to herself before she's even finished convincing herself this is the right thing to do, the only way she can go about it.

So she pulls back, shifting her head, seeking a better angle, skimming his nose so he knows she's following. She smirks as she sees his eyes are shut, not clamped with a force like he's fighting an urge to look, but the slight lift in the corner of his mouth, the crinkle of her eyes, the smile lines, lets her know his mind is being assaulted with images.

He's seen her close enough to naked more times than she cares to remember, last night an exception, but he's humming because he knows she's there, before him, not just some wicked image his mind has made.

When she stands, pressing her mouth to his, he slides his hand down her arm, entwining their fingers quickly, a brush of a gesture, like a reassurance before he drops her hand. It makes her shiver as much as his mouth at her neck, tongue chasing teeth.

Though as soon as her hand is free she grabs the towel, he doesn't let go though from she frees his fingers with her other hand and sets his hand to her hip.

He steps forward and she hears the knock of his knee against the porcelain.

He huffs into her mouth.

"Careful," she warns, smirking against his mouth at his clumsiness.

"Fine," he hums through it, sliding his hands around her back. "You're covered in bubbles." A valid enough observation. However not very astute, at least not to the typical calibre.

"Mm," she agrees. She's about to speak when he lifts his hand. He sets both hands on her back, fingers splayed as he drags them down her skin, moulded to the contours of her back, sliding the bubbles over her skin, forcing them to relent and obey the laws of physics and slide to her ankles, ready to pool on the floor.

He's sliding his tongue through her mouth, slipping and nipping at the edge of her mouth – like he's got all the time in the world.

When he reaches her arse he doesn't grab like she expects, just follows the curve to the backs of her thighs, tickling.

She bunches the fuzz of the material in her hands, his long arms and the few inches of added height the tub gives her, the way he's leaning over her too, allow him the freedom to roam. She almost drops the material as he touches the backs of her knees, dipping into the water.

She's about to relent, step forward and wrap the towel around her body, when he drops his hands, as if reading her mind, skimming knuckles back to her hips.

"Are bubbles a thing?" he asks quietly as his knuckles skim her ribs, not lingering even for half a second at the scar she knows is beneath his fingers, at his disposal.

She huffs the laugh. Opening her mouth to respond, her eyes as well and finding he's still got his shut, so she kisses his mouth quickly, stopping the train of thought, realises she's got a chance to take. "We don't need the other kind, do we?" she asks softly.

He opens one eye, halfway and she seals her mouth to his quickly, not to distract him, but to thank him. He doesn't break eye contact, and he doesn't as he speaks either. He's seeing no more than he has already. He's treading cautiously – how thoroughly he examines her body is not a concern, she's not ashamed but she's happy to note that even naked in front of him, his first instinct is eye contact. But she shouldn't have doubted it would be that way, he's way too patient for his own good and she knows she doesn't deserve it.

"Nope. No bubble, no hiding and no secrets." He's really asking her the question, but there isn't a question there.

"We can keep the bubble bath, right?"

His fingers find her arm pits, slipping under and spanning her body.

He closes his eyes. "We most certainly can."

She smirks at the 'we' and ignores the fact next time she gets in this tub she wants him there behind her and nothing to stop them spending more than a few hours wrapped in an entirely different kind of bubble than before.

She raises a hand and skims his eyebrow with her thumb.

He drops his hands down her body, sliding his hands down the front of her body, again, taking no time to pause, like he's ignoring the tweak of her nipples against the heel of his palm, the way his fingers follow suit, one by one.

Okay, he's taking the briefest of seconds.

But it's still fluid, he's not stopping.

He doesn't stop, not even when he slides his hands over her hips, letting his thumbs sink between her legs, trailing down the insides of her legs as his fingers hook around, his palm sliding down the front as he rests his knee on the edge of the tub, using it to support his weight so he can lean forwards to reach her knees.

As he stands she flicks her toe in the plughole, sliding his hands back up over her hips, around her waist and to her back as she dislodges the plug from its hole to let the water and the bubbles seep down into the sewer.

She sets her fists against his chest as he draws her closer. She leans her elbows on the towel as he uses his hands on her shoulders to guide her forwards, over the edge of the tub.

She kisses his mouth in apology as she almost stands on his good foot, nestling her feet in the too narrow space between his own.

She feels him stealing the towel from her hands, glad he will open his eyes again.

Hers are wide open and she needs him to see, to notice the change, the step forward as he wraps his arms around her, enveloping her in the warmth of the towel and his embrace all in one swift movement.

She stands on her toes as he hugs her tight.

"Have I ever told you how extraordinary you are?" he mutters to the shell of her ear, his mouth not touching, not even a graze.

She withdraws her head from his neck - his arms too firm around her body to get further away than that - so she can set her forehead to his nose, eyes fixed on the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth as she mutters, breath on his neck. "You make it pretty obvious."

He doesn't respond, just slides his nose down her forehead and lifts her body up again, forcing her onto her toes, bending his knees ever so slightly to level the playing field, to meet her mouth again.

She does like it even, flat and level. No imbalances, no secrets. The heels narrow a considerable portion of the gap, but standing against him a second ago, head just fitting into the crook of his neck a natural imbalance where she knows she's standing as tall as she can, his eyes over her head, watching her back. As always.

She'll stand there as long as she can, as tall as she can manage – no sense of false in the embrace, just truth and real – life and love.

That's what it is, love with certainty.


	17. Chapter 17

He feels her squirm in his arms and he slackens his arms, not wanting to crush her, but the way she'd clung to his embrace he thought it was-

She sighs, soft against his cheek before pressing her mouth to the spot, cool nose sliding across his skin.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, not wanting to draw away from her.

"Nothing," she says softly.

"Not nothing," he coaxes. "Tell me what you're thinking," he mutters skimming fingers over her back, setting the tiny fibres of the towel against her skin. She's already stolen the edge between them and tucked a corner deep into her chest so the pressure of his hands at her back shouldn't tug it down.

She scoffs a laugh, so soft he slides his nose over her cheek to find her mouth. Just because he can. It will help convince her.

He lets her pull back instead of deepening the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers and letting his tongue join his hands in roaming.

"Nothing's wrong." She says it like an admission, like that would be a problem, like it could possibly be considered a problem that she hasn't got a care in the world.

Though, it does stir something he can't quite name. "What do you mean?"

She sighs and closes her mouth over his, lip trailing along his bottom lip until he relents and opens his mouth to her. She draws back slowly, the slow slip of her tongue torture as it retreats. "I mean there is nothing wrong. I have no reason to," she falters and her fingers twitch against his sweatshirt. "I'm happy," she decides and meets his gaze.

He has to blink at her, the lazy smile and the fingers fisted in his sweats, his partner clad in a towel, his arms tight around her. But when he opens his eyes she's moved closer.

Her lips a brush from his, eyes daring and watching him, curious, stunning.

"Oh really? Why is that?" he asks softly, darting his tongue out to touch his own lips, itching to lean forward and run it over hers as well.

She closes the distance, catches his tongue with her lips and sucks at it as he moves to slide it over her bottom lip.

She sighs against him and opens her mouth, sliding her tongue deftly over his as she withdraws. "I just… This?" She's wrinkling her forehead, raising the corner of her mouth, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Us? You?" she offers quietly, hesitant and adorable.

"Hmm," he hums agreement, not saying more. He wants her to continue.

She doesn't.

She presses her mouth to his once and moves higher, the towel at the edge of his grasp.

"Short," he observes, voice a mutter against his lips, stealing them quickly again.

She shakes her head, huffs a laugh into his mouth, disbelief but contentment. So he takes half a step backwards, guiding her to follow.

She drops her hands to his hips, urging him to turn. But instead he leads her body around his, skimming fingers over her shoulders, hand at her hip, spinning with her, facing them both toward the door.

He drops his mouth to her neck, following the line of her shoulder with his lips. His partner arches her neck a little, guiding him across the expanse as she takes a few stumbling steps forward, fighting the hold he's got on her waist, arms tight and certain.

"Don't go to work. Come back to bed with me," he mutters.

She knocks her head to his. "I'm going to work. You know I- "

"Okay. Finish early then, meet me outside at say…" he pretends to consider, "three-"

"I've got paper-"

"I know, I know," he mutters. "But skip out early-"

"I'm already going in-"

"Kate, you aren't-"

She huffs and he lets her take a few slow steps, matching her, keeping her legs hooked against his. "Okay. But tomorrow-"

"You'll stay in bed with me?"

She scoffs. "No. I'll meet you today, early." Her agreement has him suppress a quiver of excitement. "But why?" she asks softly, taking another step, his left foot following the lead of hers, hip kept tight against her arse, right arm gripping her waist, hugging her to him, not too much, just for balance.

He knows she understands he's waiting to ensure his ankle doesn't give out on him – it may not hurt but the ginger walking pace is timid and cautious. But she's here, pressed tight against him.

He hesitates even longer, opening his mouth at her ear, waiting for her to turn and ask, but she doesn't, just keeps tugging him along with her on another timid step. "Surprise?" he hedges, an offer. He flinches, awaiting some form of response – a swat, a protest, or even the loss of her body from his arms.

"You better not be planning some-" She's not outraged or shocked, just sounds too content with 'as is' to want to bother with more. But she seems ready to object at any second, convince him not to do something extravagant.

He'll give her more soon enough, but this thing for today isn't - it isn't the day.

"Trust me," he mutters.

She twists her fingers through his, putting some more distance between them but only enough for her to be able to-

He watches the line of her neck twist as she turns her head, meeting his gaze, curious. "What are you-"

He watches her drop the expression, the ready-to-fight look gone from her eyes and has to force himself not to smile, settling for squeezing her fingers quickly.

"Castle…" The warning falls short and not because she's dropped his hand to wrap her arm across her chest, fiddling with the corner of the towel. It must be coming loose. He flicks his eyes to her arm, follows the smooth skin to her shoulder, gentle in its curve around as it moulds with her chest, smooth skin, still slick with the remnants of her bath. He doesn't see water droplets he'd be able to chase, but he knows they're skirting across her stomach, dancing across the skin, all too tormentingly from beneath the shrouding towel. He is distracted as she exhales, a puff of air, probably annoyed but he skirts his eyes down her body, over the hips he knows are also covered in the droplets.

Then he catches sight of the top of her leg – short towel indeed, but certainly not indecent. She's just too tall for it to shroud much of her legs, barely an inch if he's honest – and that's with the way it's half covering her breasts, holding tight to give a subtle hint of cleavage. He follows the drop to the outside of her knee, wants to drop to his own and chase it along her skin.

"Are you listening?"

Whoops.

She smirks at him as he raises his eyes to hers, lifting them reluctantly from her knee.

He shakes his head. Why bother to lie? She's been watching him the entire time and he wasn't exactly ogling her… just admiring curves and remembering skin he's now seen. One section at a time.

She rolls her eyes and tugs him forward.

"I was trying to find out-"

"Distracted," he explains, fingers already twitching at the edge of the towel, skimming the skin of her legs, fingers catching another drop, so he slides down her thigh with it, not missing the way she rocks her hips and parts her thighs, pressing her arse into his groin as he trails a finger along the inside of her thigh, chasing the drop as it flattens against his finger, lost beneath the pressure. She drops the fingers of his other hand to bat his finger away, stopping the tease he is too absorbed in to notice his locality and her retaliations.

"I can tell but," she closes both hands around his.

"You have to go to work," he mocks softly, gently as she raises his hand, presses them into her stomach.

"That isn't what I was going to say." His other hand joins the mess of fingers on her stomach, needing to interlock all their fingers.

He arches a brow as he finds the niche, knowing she can't see it, but she'll know it's there.

"What is it? I thought you wanted to have dinner at the loft with-"

"I do. But first I'm going to take you somewhere that's a well-kept secret, kind of classified." He presses a kiss to her shoulder, quick and unassuming, habit.

"Really?" She sounds more dazed than intrigued.

"No bag over your head though," he promises and catches her mouth with his, having to stop at her jaw to get her to turn back into her own shoulder to meet his mouth.

She huffs against his mouth but squeezes his fingers as he tugs them with hers and skims her thighs. "That wouldn't win you any-"

She stops and he draws his face from hers a little, curious as something shifts across her face, the silhouette of her features giving her away. "You okay?" he asks quietly.

He watches as she steels herself, it only takes a second. "It wouldn't win you any points if you put a bag over my head to take me... wherever you're taking me."

He doesn't understand what made her falter, maybe memories of that case, of the linchpin and the mysterious darkness surrounding them in those bags. He can still remember the hitch in her voice when she stumbled upon him in the entryway.

"I'm not telling you where. But it's not huge or a big deal or… actually it probably won't even be fun."

He watches her screw her face up, completely confused. He frees a hand and touches the furrow above her brow, shifts a clump of hair which had stuck to her clammy forehead.

"Don't worry, okay? Go to work and I'll come get you. You'll thank me afterwards, okay?"

If she was swimming in confusion before now he's dropped her in it. But he's not telling her about their arrangements for this afternoon, not yet.

"Coffee?" he offers.

He watches her eyes, probably realising the same moment he does that he's making plans (and not telling her about them), talking to her while she's in the bath (granted, he's not sure the next time conversation will be so serious, nor will he remain so dry), making breakfast (her own request so it kind of doesn't count) but inviting her into her own bed (that's his own doing, but it's not like he expected her to agree). And now he's offering her coffee, slipping back into an old rhythm.

"No." She shakes her head.

"No?" He gapes at her and she steals his mouth.

She drops it almost as soon as she takes it, tongue swift across his bottom lip, but not sliding into the gaping orifice. She eyes him curiously.

"Come on I have to get dressed and drive you-"

He pouts. Then sighs as she pulls back and tugs him forwards again, walking backwards, careful and slow, leading him into her room.

She has no idea what she's doing to him.

"You're ankle good?" she asks as she drops his fingers and heads to her dresser.

He crowds in behind her, kissing the line her shoulder again, humming against her skin.

"It's better now." He's got his hands at her hips, just tight enough that he can feel the curve of the bone through the thick towel.

Oof.

She crashes into his chest, taking him by surprise as she steps back with the opening drawer. He feels the flick of her hair against his cheek as she begins to rummage. He flicks his eyes over her shoulders, follows the flash of her hands as they move through a pile of her underwear.

He sucks the skin under his lips into his mouth, feeling her shiver as he wraps both arms around her waist, stealing the weight of her breasts with the crook of his elbows as he tightens them, humming against her skin.

He watches her pause a second, hesitate in consideration of a barely there pair of briefs, red lace that's already burned onto his brain.

She discards them.

Another time.

Another occasion, apparently.

Or so it seems, until she regards another pair, blue and silk, a slick edge she's toying with between the tips of her fingers, admiring or regarding he can't be certain.

He slides his mouth across the back of her neck, enjoying the tickle as the loose wisps slide across his forehead. He feels her shoulders twitch as he exhales.

He hears the thud of the drawer sliding shut as he works the ridges of her shoulder with his tongue, committing each facet to memory.

Then it's gone from beneath his mouth, pressed too far into his chest for him to reach, it hidden between them, his nose sliding haphazardly over the ridge of her shoulder, caught off guard.

He makes do and finds the edge of her clavicle, memorising that curve instead.

It's not until she draws her arse from the groove of his hips, then resettles it against him a second later, sliding her hands down his thighs, giving a tiny pinch to each as she releases them – the edge of her reach, that he realises she slid into her underwear.

Damn, he missed the selection process.

He skims his fingers over her hips, fingers touching the elastic. "Hmm, just normal. Good."

She rolls her eyes, he can, the slight arch of her neck and she looks skyward a tell only he can tell.

"Nothing fancy," he nips at the tendon on her neck, watching as it shifts with her swallow. "We don't need fancy."

"Stop," she slaps his hand away.

"Problem?" he asks quietly.

"I need to get this on," she swats him in the head with it, cream and ordinary.

"Hmm, so ordinary, I love it."

She scoffs before he's even finished, but lets him finish before objecting further – a rarity. "Why?"

"You're still…"

"If you say I'm still me I'm going to have to call a plasterer to have him patch up the bullet holes."

"Hmm, can't have that." He follows the angle of her head, the direction to where her eyes ought to be – and he finds them on him, in the mirror in the corner of the room.

She's watching him watch her.

When she notices his shift she kisses his jaw, fingers touching the stubble on his chin, scratching at it really.

"You're extraordinary," he mutters to her reflection, keeping his nose to her skin, his eyes on hers.

"So you keep saying."

"It's the truth."

"You too."

"Hmm?" He plays dumb, he wants her to say it – pay him a compliment while she looks him in the eye.

"You are pretty extraordinary yourself, Castle."

"Pale in comparison to a woman who can wear plain," he steals a glance at her thighs in the mirror, finds the edge of her panties now visible as he hitches the towel slightly with his tight grip, "okay, striped panties and a cream bra," he teases softly, quizzical and amazed.

"I've got to work." She shrugs against him, lifting her shoulders from beneath his arms and quickly sliding her arms through the gap she's created for herself. he loosens his grip enough to allow the escape, but drops his mouth to her shoulder as he watches her tug the edge of the towel from beneath his arm, letting it fall to the floor.

"Hmm," he hums approval and slides his hands slowly around her body, dancing his fingertips across the skin. He slides his mouth down the line of her neck, fingers aptly finding the curve of her breasts, cupping them into his palms, thumb tweaking – he knows she has to go to work, knows she feels she has to stay grounded after this shift (she has to prove to herself she can do both, be happy and be a cop).

He feels the moment her chin hits her chest, neck as arched as it can get. He slides his tongue along the length of it as she slides her body slowly down his at the sensation , his fingers tightening around the weights in his hand.

He feels her shuddered exhale the same second the material of the bra touches his knuckles. He meets her eyes around her ear, past wisps of hair too. The flush he spies on her cheeks has the corner of his mouth twitching. He lets her breasts fall into the cups, as steals the edge of the material from her fingers.

"Arms in," he mutters.

She sighs and puts her head to his shoulder, obeying not nearly as awkwardly as he expected.

But her head lulls to the side as he steps back to lock those stupid hooks together, one at a time before the two halves come together, joining the piece of fabric around her, securing it. He presses his mouth softly between her shoulder blades as he slides his hands to her waist, grip lazy.

She turns in his hands and kisses his mouth softly. "Thanks."

He scoffs, but she's already pulling a light top over her head, furthering the process much too quickly for his liking. So as she comes back through it, out the other side, he snags her mouth, not missing the fact the top catches on her hair as she recoils slightly, shocked before she relaxes into it, tongue slipping quickly into his mouth.

He uncatches her hair for her, taking the opportunity to slide the band slowly from her hair, catching it on his fingers as he buries them in her hair.

When she sighs against his mouth, leaning her head into the palms of his hands, he has to drop her mouth. "You know right?"

She furrows a brow, confused. "What?" she asks, moving to step away from him, surely headed off to find some slacks or jeans. But he stops her, hands at her hips.

"You know I love you." He swallows, wishes the flicker of fear didn't dance across her face.

"Yeah I…" she bites her lip, hands at his shoulders, like she's readying herself to hold him back, keep him from running away from her.

Clearly she's forgotten that his hobble would make it easy for her to catch him. Or maybe she just needs to hold onto him, ground herself.

Her eyes travel skyward again, not in a roll, just in an attempt to draw something from a deity he knows she lost faith in long ago.

"Kate," he prompts. "Explain it. Before you go to work."

She huffs a breath and crowds in closer. "I couldn't tell you because I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve someone who-"

"Bullshit," he mutters.

"Don't… Just don't. Let me say this, okay? We said no more secrets. And I… I ignored that, already."

"No you didn't. I knew and I should have been the one to say something." She blinks. "Our little talk on the swings…" She gives him a lazy smile, clearly glad he knows her so well, is a master of subtext. "I knew what you were saying. You weren't ready for me to love you." He doesn't miss the intake as he says it again. "You weren't ready to admit you loved me too." The shuddered breath has her burying her face in his neck, but he stops her, he needs her to see him say it. "I can deal with you not being able to tell me, I'm fine with it actually because you have to be ready. But we're here and you need to know. I almost said this last night, and several times this morning, but I can tell you I love you and not need to have you say it back. I just need you to know-"

He's interrupted by her groan, her mouth hot against his as she slides her tongue through his mouth, touching each crevice.

"I love you." It comes soft and muttered as they draw back, he shivers at her lazy smile.

* * *

><p><em>So sorry for the delay guys but this one is nice and long to compensate.<br>The next one will be MUCH sooner : ]_


	18. Chapter 18

He's saying it again.

He loves her.

She feels dopey, like the smile she's giving him is beyond her control and she's a puddle that formed on the floor about half a love-professing speech ago.

But she can't find the words.

"I love you," he mutters again, a breath from her mouth.

"Can I…" She trails off, has to close her eyes against the wash of emotions and give a soft huff.

He steals her lips in answer, an assurance it really is okay.

"Whenever you're ready. Whenever you want. Whenever you think… Just… Whenever, Kate."

She kisses him this time, slides her tongue through his mouth because this seems to be the only way to shut him up.

"I love you," he says again and she shivers at his breath on her neck, mouth to her ear as he pulls her closer.

He stole her silence, again.

Another chance.

But there will be more.

He'll (hopefully) ease back on filling the silences himself and start realising she needs a chance to say her piece. He's just…

He's ecstatic, elated and euphoric.

It suits him.

She suits him.

So she taps her temple to his cheek and changes direction.

She'll never get those three words out unless she shifts his focus. "I need to find some pants because this could go on all day."

He'll keep stealing her opportunities as long as she lets him. So she's got to catch him off guard too.

"Complaining?" he teases.

"Not exactly." She certainly isn't, but still raises an eyebrow, arches it as a challenge.

He presses his mouth to it and mutters against her skin. "I love you. I don't know if I can stop saying it."

She has to chuckle. "Why not?" She doesn't want him to stop saying it though.

"Holding back so long? Have an excuse now? Just-"

She scoffs at him. "I knew you were a girl, Castle, but really?"

"I'm not apologising. And I know you don't want me to." His mouth at her ear has her wishing she could bring herself to skip work and climb back into bed with this man.

Her partner.

"No comment," she quips.

He hums and steals the shell of her ear, slipping his tongue around it, just touching his teeth to the soft skin gracing the curve. "You're going to have to get used to that one."

She settles against him, considering. "You're not that famous."

He feigns offense, drops his arms from around her, but she catches them as he skims her hips.

"I know," he mutters. "But you and I being together, we'll attract some attention."

She notices the snag of her shoulders and knows he must too. She wishes she'd caught them, but then his mouth is there, muttering against the skin of her neck.

"It'll pass. Probably only last a week or so, maybe a month if nothing else catches their attention. Plus I've seen you handle them at work, you're a pro."

She spins in his arms when he tries to touch his lips to her cheek, catching his mouth as she does. "Can we just…"

"You want to keep it quiet." He swallows.

"I want to tell…" She huffs a breath. "I want to tell Alexis, my dad, your mum, the boys and Lanie." She feels her eyes widen. Oh God, she has to tell Lanie. The woman will probably implode.

Ugh.

"She's going to make high pitched noises." He chuckles.

She groans a little. She does love her friend but when the woman hears the news about this progression, she's going to-

"She's going to hunt you down actually."

"Me?" He's actually shocked, amused, but still shocked.

"There will be threats and-"

"Oh," he mutters against her ear, "it'll be fine."

She scoffs. "And then there's Gates…"

She watches him close his eyes at the reminder. The woman who will no doubt ban him from the precinct.

"We should talk to her too," she adds as an afterthought.

He groans. "Ugh, so rational." He kisses the corner of her jaw. "But I do agree."

"When?" she queries softly.

"Together."

That's not a specific answer, but it's the one she needed. "Really?"

"Well you're in this right? We're in this-"

"Yes."

"I love you."

Here he goes again. "Okay you need to stop saying that or I'm never going to-"

He kisses her, mouth insistent, taking the opportunity to slip his tongue between parted lips. "Hmm," he hums before continuing, mouth sliding over hers as he does, "go to work, okay? Find some pants and I'll go home and come get you later."

"And go see someone about your ankle."

"Bossy." He teases.

"Says the man telling me to put some pants on."

"It's very distracting," he protests, fingers suddenly skimming the backs of her thighs. "But if you don't want to…" he taunts.

"You weren't-"

"But now you've got to go to work. So I'm going to say goodbye and drive myself-"

"You can't drive yourself home, Castle."

He cocks his head to the side. "Kate, its fine. I can drive with one foot. The car-"

She regards him and he skims her thighs again. "Ring me if-"

"I will send you a message when I get there, okay?" He kisses her quickly. "Hmm," he hums. "I like this worried girlfriend side of you."

She scoffs and can't think of a response, a defence. "I'm not though."

He regards her and she knows she was too vague.

Damn.

"I'm not a worried girlfriend."

That still came out wrong. Well, not wrong, but not how she wanted it to.

But he keeps regarding her, more curious now than concerned. He always knows what she's about to say, has always known. She can't always anticipate his responses though.

"I'm your partner."

He kisses her quickly, soft and sure, agreeing.

"I should be worried." He would be concerned if he wasn't worried, wouldn't he?

"Not my girlfriend?" he asks quietly.

How does she explain this to him? She thought he'd understand…

"We're more than that." These attempts are dwindling.

_Oh_, is what he's saying, the arch of his neck, the question in his eyes telling her everything she has to know.

"We've been a lot more than that for a while now…" she admits.

"Ah," he mutters, "partners." It seems he's beginning to understand.

"Yeah." She shrugs and takes a step away from him, lips lingering a few seconds longer than necessary. "Let me get some jeans and I'll walk down with you."

She clenches her arse as his fingers slides along the tops of her thigh, grazing the cheeks which peak out beneath. "I'm going to find my shoes."

"Couch," she offers already turning away, giving no more acknowledgement to his lingering fingers.

"Put your pants on and come find me."

She rolls her eyes, but opens her closet and moves into material aside, quickly finding the pair she's after, soft and conforming, ones she's seen him appreciate on more than one occasion.

Except he won't be there today, she's just going to be stuck behind her desk with her paperwork.

She's still buttoning them as she heads down the hall, pulling the legs up over her ankles as she moves into the lounge room, a pair of thick socks in her hand. She sits heavily on the couch beside him, already unrolling the balls of socks.

"Ankle good?" she asks quietly as she realises he's gingerly sliding his foot into the shoe.

He winces a little. "It should be good once it settles. The pain meds don't work for jostling it to stuff it into a pair of socks."

She touches his shoulder for balance as she leans across to press her mouth to his cheek.

"Don't bother tying them. Just come downstairs like that." She flicks her eyes to the undone shoes, tongue gaping and loose around his ankle.

"Okay, help me up."

"Pft," she scoffs at him but stands and offers him her hands regardless. "Come on."

He's got his hands on her coat before she manages to, the cushioning of his shoe helping him keep a normal pace. Then she realises. "Do I need anything for later?"

"Just yourself. And maybe something for tomorrow? If you want, I want you to stay with me tonight."

The flush at his cheeks has her running her thumbs over them. "Okay let me get another top."

"You should probably get some shoes too," he teases as she lets herself slide a little on the floor.

She waves a hand behind herself as she heads back down the hall, dismissing him and his hovering. She appreciates it, she does, and it's grown on her, like he has. She even enjoys it a little too much now, loves it even.

But not quite as much as she loves him so she grabs a few more items than necessary, shoving them deep into her bag, hidden until later, much later. Each one guaranteed to make him hover.

* * *

><p><em>A necessary filler for what is about to occur.<br>__Hopefully I'll be able to update in a few days : )_


	19. Chapter 19

She's been haunting him all day. Ghosting into his thoughts, clouding his focus.

Worse than it was ever before.

And before it was constant.

Now it's just continuous.

The way she'd let him press her against the Crown Vic, mutter that he'd always wanted to do that. She'd teased the edge of his sweats, fingers stealing the heat from beneath the edge and hummed her approval, smile ghosting her lips and a flush on her cheeks, the chill of the morning air, the heat of his body or just a combination. He didn't care.

Still doesn't now.

It doesn't matter that when she'd said she'd see him later and made no move to extract herself from his grip, he'd just kissed her again, slid his hands down her body and made her shiver with the heat of his mouth, skimming her cheek, the line of her jaw on his way to her ear. He'd hummed and drew her body closer as he found the handle behind her, using the metal to jolt her into his body, barely taking half a step back to accommodate the open door himself.

He shivers as he remembers the slant of her mouth against his as she tucked her body in close.

But then she'd been gone, ducking under his arm into the car, practised and comfortable, like she's been ducking his embrace for years. He has to suppose now that she has been.

He skims his fingers over the soft leather of his steering wheel, gripping lightly, walking his fingers around the wheel as he turns the corner, almost there. She's leaning against the corner of the car, waiting for him a set of lights away, hair distinct in the breeze, arms crossed over her chest against the cold just confirming what he already knew, she's waiting where they agreed.

He didn't doubt she'd be coming with him, but he'd almost hoped to be able to hobble upstairs and steal her attention from her computer screen and usher her out the door, barely being containing himself until the elevator doors closed around them.

But that would be her own fault.

She's been sending him short messages all day – of course, he'd started it, but that had been her request. The short notification that he was home and an invitation that she could still skip out on work and climb into his bed with him. He'd reasoned she'd only just arrived so no one would miss her.

Her only response had been later. So he'd kept prompting, asking what she meant, if she was certain her paperwork held more appeal. He had given up though when she said she'd see her in an hour, he hadn't missed the opportunity to say it again – that he loves her.

As soon as the car is in sight, she step forward to meet it, already inside before the impatient taxi behind him has the forethought to stand on his horn.

The second she releases her fingers from around the seatbelt he catches them, finds hers already expecting the gesture. He flicks his eyes to her face and finds her focused on their fingers, as expected.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"You're," he corrects.

"Castle, what-"

"I'm coming with you, if you want me to, but it's for you."

He swings a left and he feels her lean her elbow onto the console separating them. He likes the change, the shift in positions, in circumstances. He doubts it'll stay like this though. But that's more than okay with him, the thumb she's skimming over his knuckle is enough of a shift – no matter who drives.

"Tell me," she interrupts his thoughts with the soft request.

"We're almost there," he deflects.

She huffs and he has to smirk, skimming fingers over her palm. "You went to see someone about your ankle?"

At least she's allowing the deflection, for now. "Yeah, all good. Stay off it, ice it, keep it strapped how it was, you did all the right things." He squeezes fingers. "Thanks."

"Stop thanking me." She's serious, quiet. "You don't need to thank me for these things, this is how we work now – you don't get to be the only one-"

"I was never the only one making an effort, don't say that, Kate."

"For a long time it was the truth though, Rick. I just let you do all the work. I did have to for a while, we both know that. I had a lot of… stuff, to overcome and put behind me."

He takes the opportunity as she inhales. "You needed the time, it hurt but I get it. You know this."

"I know and I'm not bringing that up. I'm saying start letting me be in this too. It's not a big deal. I want to do this with you." She twitches the pad of her thumb over the knuckle of his own, soft and habitual.

"Then we will. Don't be mad though."

"Why would I-?"

He pulls into a spot and she's looking around, curious. Surrounded by non-descript office buildings she won't have a clue where they are going, not yet.

"Come on." He's already sliding out of the car and motioning for her to do the same, but she eyes him curious and follows his lead.

He meets her near the front of the car and slides his arms around her as she moves to turn to peer around the street again, scouting, trying to determine their location. "Hey," he greets softly, pressing his mouth to hers. He feels her skim her nose beside his, relaxing into his hold and his mouth, the twitch of her fingers tugging on his coat tells her she needed the greeting, just for a second, so he withdraws. "Good day?" he asks quietly

"Long." She settles into his side, the arm he'd been expecting to be locked with her fingers again falling over her shoulder as she slips an arm around his waist.

He ushers her into the building, up a small narrow staircase.

"Massage therapy?" she queries.

"Yeah." He kisses the side of her head. "It's going to hurt but."

"Like… You mentioned last night that-"

"You need it," he offers quietly, hand on the small of her back trying to urge her up the stairs quicker. She's moving much slower than her normal pace, no whirlwind of hair and thud of boots on the thin stairs, just her body stalling on the stairs before him.

"You've done it before?"

He nods even though she can't see, he doesn't doubt she can see. "Yeah. It'll be fine after tomorrow."

He catches her as she turns, caught in the midst of trying to urge her up the stairs – not holding her in place, just letting her move back towards him.

"Okay." She nods, deciding.

He smirks at her. The fact she had to turn and check for some kind of sincerity or some kind of signal, some clue to his intentions. But it seems she found it. "Okay?" He raises an eyebrow though, just to be certain.

"Yeah, I said okay."

He kisses her quickly (because he can) and undoes the button she haphazardly drew together herself. "I'll take this," he says softly, watching her as her eyes follow his fingers, his own eyes not following them. The smirk on her face as he opens it and she shrugs it off her shoulders has him lean in to steal her mouth again. But as soon as he's tossing the coat over an arm, she's already moving up the stairs, fingers finding his, tugging him along too.

"Kate Beckett," she supplies to the receptionist with the raised eyebrow, the one who no doubt spies the shift in the man she saw a few hours before. He's no longer distracted and on his phone, he doesn't need to be, she's here with him.

"Joe is waiting for you guys." Gesturing to the door behind her, no judgement, just knowing.

With her raised eyebrow he steals her fingers and leads her to the small exam room.

"Rick." He's greeted with a handshake, fingers dropping from Kate's. Though he notices she doesn't step forward to do the same. She's a little nervous, it's cute. "And you must be Kate."

At the outstretched she extends her own, he skims her back with his fingers quickly. He's not sure why some offer of comfort, show of support or just needing to touch her. It's more the need to be close, constant contact is becoming necessary.

His partner falls silent, doesn't engage Joe in conversation. He's curious. Not even Alexis had been this hesitant at her first session, though she'd been with him a few times just watching. So Castle engages them in conversation, prompting her. He's not sure why she's hesitated. He had had the forethought though to give Joe her history so she didn't need to explain to him about specifics, just where it's tight, where it pulls.

"Okay, I'll let you get ready," Joe says softly, warm smile as he bows out of the small room, off to do who knows what.

And then he's gone.

The deer in the headlights look she's wearing has him wanting to step forwards.

"You don't have to do this," he mutters.

"No, I want to. It's just…"

"Intimidating," he supplies. "I filled out the forms earlier when I was in."

"You came here for your ankle?"

He gives half a laugh. "Yeah.

"Take your shirt off and lie on the table for him, I'll be in the waiting-"

"Stay."

Oh. She's serious. "Okay," he mutters, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he settles himself against the wall and slips his phone from his pocket, already unlocking it when she speaks.

"You're unbelievable," she teases.

"I'm…" he starts, but she's got an eyebrow arched. There is no point defending it, she knows.

So he watches her, meets her eyes as she tugs the top over her head. He takes the two steps while she's disappeared and presses his mouth to hers as soon as her head pulls through, hair falling haphazardly around the fingers he's got pressed to her neck and jaw.

"Thank you," she mutters. "Really, thanks."

"You won't be thanking me for the next half hour or so."

She cringes a little but rolls her eyes, opens her mouth to respond but there is a knock on the door. "Ready?" comes the polite request, the prod that they need to get started, not wasting more time.

Castle finds the towel folded on the table behind her with one hand while the other urges her back against the table, a gentle prompt. "Lie down," he mutters already draping the towel over her body as she scoots back, swinging her legs around to lie on her stomach.

"She's ready," he answers watching his partner narrow her eyes at him, like she could have done that for herself, but as soon as the knob turns she smiles for a brief second before she rests her forehead against that little hole.

He tenses as soon as the other man comes back into the room. He can see the tightness in her shoulders, normally shrouded by thick coats or even thin shirts, but now bare on a table in front of him the tension is evident.

She needs this.

So Castle stays silent as the therapist prods her to talk, relax, gives her a rundown of how he's going to start shallow and work deeper, and to let him know if it hurts too much.

He hears her muffled response, has to smile, has to wish he could do this for her. But offering her this, he can do.

The other man is touching the curves of her back, working his way along the line of her spine, teasing the muscles there, loosening them, working around her ribs, teasing the muscles there too. Expert hands he's experienced more than once, but on his partner the hands are too large, too intense. He wants to stop it, he can see her feet shifting beneath the towel, the curl of her toes audible against the thick plastic of the table. But she's not in pain, not really, its release and she needs release.

It doesn't mean he wouldn't rather provide it himself.

But this she needs, she needs no tightness in her chest when she breaths against him, he needs to be able to wrap his arms around her and feel her relaxed and comfortable, not tense from wounds long ago healed that still restrict her movements.

"Okay, Kate?" the therapist asks as he works fingers along her ribs, following the lines of her muscles as they travel around her body, up to her shoulder and around her ribs.

"I'm good," she manages.

Joe meets his eyes over her body, giving him a wink.

She'll be fine.

* * *

><p>Joe rests his hand on her back, tapping the skin about three inches above the newly refastened bra.<p>

He's finished.

"Get up slowly."

Castle doesn't heed his advice.

But she does. She's nodding, already lifting her head as he exits the room, leaving him to stand from the chair and gather the piece of fabric he's been toying with between his fingers. "You good?" he asks quietly as he stands in front of her.

"Hmm," she hums.

"Hurt?" he asks as she sits herself up, drawing her body over the legs she's dragged up the bed, kneeling in front of him.

"Yes and no."

"It'll be worse in the morning."

"He said to take a bath," she offers.

"I know," he acknowledges. Hopes his eyes dance a little with a glimmer of inviting himself to join her.

"Okay I'm good," she mutters, finally removing her hand from her head, no more fingers touched to her forehead.

"Here," he hands her the shirt, "I'll meet you outside."

"I'm good," she says, already sliding off the table, shirt pulled over her head quickly, hand on his forearm – he can't tell if it's balance or just a want for proximity.

He tugs down the edge of the shirt, skimming the smooth skin of her stomach with his knuckles, still slick with the oil that's assaulting his senses.

"Good to go?" she asks.

He nods. "I'll take you home."

She steals her bag from his other hand, slinging it over her shoulder and sliding her fingers through his, tugging him through the door to the reception area.

"I'll see you next time, Rick." Joe waves. "Nice to meet you, Kate."

"Castle," she urges, trying to move him toward the small counter.

"I took care of it when I was in before."

She narrows her eyes at him and lets out a steady breath.

"What did you expect?" he smirks at her and waves to the two observing, knowing looks and curiosity.

She huffs and heads down the stairs ahead of him, fingers still linked with his.

He catches her as she reaches for the door, he's about to ask if she's okay, reassure her that this is how this works sometimes. He pays for things and doesn't consult her, doesn't even wait through the polite argument about his insistence. This was his idea, his gesture. So for it to be a gesture, he should be paying.

But she slips her tongue into his mouth, warm and wet, pressing his body back against the wall of the thin hallway as soon as he opens his mouth to speak.

The soft groan he lets out only seems to spur her on, cause her to nip his bottom lip and draw it into her mouth.

"Thank you," she mutters, nose grazing his cheek as she steps back, moving back to the door. "Dinner? Or is there something else I should be worried about?"

He chuckles and pretends to consider, catching her fingers, the ones curled in his lapel not two seconds ago. "Dinner," he decides.

She nods and is already opening the door, heading for the car.

"Good with lasagne?"

She hums approval and drops his fingers to leave him to get in the car.

She's already buckled when he slides in, tugging her hair from the beneath the seatbelt.

"I spoke to Alexis," he offers, "and she wants to talk to us together."

He watches her brow furrow and he stops sliding the key into the ignition, leaves it dangling in the hole, in limbo.

"What did you tell her?" She's hedging.

"We're together." He offers.

"What did she say?" She's curious.

"Nodded and said she'd talk to us later, together, if that was okay. I didn't see why it wouldn't be so I agreed."

Oh. He watches the word form silently on her lips.

"You're okay with that?" he asks quietly. She seems to be okay with that.

She hesitates. "Yes. I'm just…"

"Not used to it, I get it and so does Alexis."

"I've never been in a relationship where my," he listens to the exhale around the word, laden with a lot more meaning now, "partner has a child, let alone one who is about to go to college."

He steals her mouth before she can even turn her head to meet him. "A first?" he teases, watching her let the smile slide across his face, half a nod in acknowledgement.

"But you'll be fine."

He turns the key without looking, a silent cue that they're going to do this together.

"I know, doesn't make it that much easier though."

"Think of it like an interview."

"It will be more like an interrogation and I won't be the one with the upper hand."

He scoffs on a laugh and pulls out into the traffic. "It'll be fine though." He steals her fingers, wonders why he didn't have them in the first place.

"I know. It's just… an adjustment, for both of us I guess."

"What about me?"

She doesn't hesitate to scoff at him. "You cannot tell me you're worried about this transition."

"No I can't. But I want you both to be happy with this shift."

"I owe her answers, I know that. I probably owe her more of an explanation than I ever owed you."

He drags her fingers to his mouth, foot focused on braking for the red light. "The fact you understand that," he kisses the knuckle of her index finger, "means you already understand her more than… most people."

She flicks a finger against his chin, it doesn't escape his notice that she's scraping one of the spots she graced last night and this morning, as lost in him as he is in her.

"Go," she mutters.

He blinks, swallows.

"Castle, drive."

He has to chuckle, drop her fingers and raise an eyebrow in salute, acknowledgement.

But he follows.

* * *

><p>He's unsurprised by the way his daughter greets him at the door, arms flung around him so quickly Kate has to step further back to avoid wandering limbs, already hiding behind him.<p>

They both know that won't save her.

Though, maybe she just needs a second to collect her thoughts after the way he's just stroked his tongue through her mouth, holding her against the wall of his elevator with his body for five floors too few.

But he needed those thirty seconds.

And she did too.

He can't help but be amazed at her, even as he greets his daughter with a casual "Hey Pumpkin" and a kiss to the side of her head, only one arm flung around her in return, the other his partner is trying to free herself from, to let him embrace his daughter.

"How was your day?" he asks, trying for normal. It has only been a few hours since she left with Lanie to go to a murder he wasn't called to – he's still undecided if he likes that aspect more or less than her being present when he is. She doesn't need guarding, but sometimes he wonders what she sees that he doesn't, what he hasn't.

With Alexis already launching into a description of their victim he tugs Kate around him.

"Hey," Alexis takes pause before devilling into grotesque details of the wounds the victim received as a result of his impalement.

"You put dinner in the oven?" he asks quietly, interrupting a description of stomach contents. (Thankfully not at all similar to their pending meal.)

"Indeed." She's already heading back across towards the kitchen, continuing, expecting them to follow.

This isn't what he expected from his daughter and by the slip of Kate's arm against his, removing her coat, touching his elbow as she tugs off her boots with apt fingers, it seems that she didn't expect it either.

Though he's not sure either of them know exactly what to expect.

It's not until he's offered his partner and daughter a glass of wine, both rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, too similar as he chops up the ingredients for a salad that things shift from stories of their days to the elephant in the room.

"You should put more ice on your ankle, Dad."

That's all it takes.

Such a slight shift to culminate in her admission – she loves him.

* * *

><p><em>I hope you all survive 47 Seconds - I doubt I will.<br>But hopefully this can fill the void made by the anticipation of that ;)_


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